I'll Never Forget Auntie!

Story from London Life Vol.1 No.7

I'll Never Forget Auntie!

Reading the magazine "London Life'' prompted the following story sent in by one of our lady readers. She has asked us not to publish her name, and we respect her wish. In her covering letter she tells us the following:

'When I first saw ''London Life" I thought it was just another sex magazine with emphasis on the female bottom! My dear husband is bottom mad, believing it to be the most attractive part of the female anatomy; every time I bend down he gives me a wolf whistle... and I am middle-aged! However, when I started to read "London Life" the memories came flooding back to me. My husband often spanks my bottom for fun... and sexual pleasure — I told you he was a bottom "fiend". But I remembered another occasion, when I was sixteen and boy mad. The story I have sent you is mainly fiction, though some of it is factual. I got great pleasure in writing it, and my husband enjoyed reading it, as I hope you do. It amazed me how certain events clicked into my mind once I got on my typewriter, forgotten incidents flooded back to me, the events that led up to my ultimate punishment, even how I felt at the time. I do hope you find it suitable for your magazine.'

We did find it suitable, Mrs K., and we have pleasure in publishing it, more or less as you wrote the story down.

* * *

Auntie Gladys wasn't really my auntie, she was an old friend of my mothers who lived in Nottingham. I'd always called her auntie from being very small, as most children do to special friends of the family. I must have had a dozen aunties and uncles, just like other children. But Auntie Glad was someone special to me. She lived alone in quite a large house just on the outskirts of Nottingham, a place called Mapperley Park, and I used to visit her for a few weeks during the school summer holidays. She was kindness itself to me, playing with me in the garden when the weather was nice, or draughts with me in the large room when it was raining. I think I loved her almost as much as I loved my mother. As I grew up she would advise me, especially warning me about boys! This amused me more than anything. She had been married, but lost her husband early in the marriage. I only vaguely remember Uncle Sid, as a man who bounced me on his knee while singing: 'This is the way the ladies ride'.

At sixteen it was to be my last long holiday with Auntie Glad, I was going to start work at an office in September. I could have started earlier, but I wanted a few weeks rest before joining the rat race of the outside world... there was also a boy in Nottingham I was sweet on! I'd met him the year before, when I was fifteen, and although we hadn't exactly made love, we had been very near to it. He could excite me, and work me up more than any other could, and I had already made up my mind that if he wanted to go the whole way with me, I would let him. Girls of sixteen are very impressionable, and I had been reading a lot of books loaned to me by other girls, and making love was depicted as the most beautiful experience in the world. The books are right of course, making love is beautiful, but what they ommitted to say was, to a girl of sixteen it can be a traumatic experience, and rather frightening. However, my seduction by Billy is not the main part of my story, although it does play a part!

I arrived at Auntie Glad's on a glorious Saturday morning, the sun shining down from a cloudless sky. Auntie met me at the station as she always did, and we took a cab to her home.

Nothing bad changed, it never did, the same furniture that had been there since I was quite small. I unpacked my suitcase, then telephoned Billy to tell him I was once again in Nottingham. He was older than me, at least eighteen or nineteen, I forget his exact age. Auntie heard me talking to him of course, and when I put the 'phone down she looked at me very seriously.

'You're getting to be quite a young woman Maureen, I suppose you have a lot of boy friends?'

I told her I had a few, but I liked Billy the best of the lot.

'You want to be very careful of Billy,' she said. 'I see him quite a lot, and he always has a different girl with him. I don't want you to do anything that would upset your mother, I am responsible for you during the next few weeks. I realise of course that you will want to go out dancing and to the cinema, and you won't want me hanging around you all the time... not like you did when you were a child. Heavens Maureen, I still look on you as a child, and here you are, a young woman on the threshold of her life!'

I told auntie I would be a good girl, but thought what a silly old frump she was getting to be!

'I hope you will be', she murmured, 'I'd hate to have to spank you, like I did when you were small!'

I laughed. 'I don't believe it auntie, I don't remember you ever spanking me.'

'Oh yes I did, when you were small. I used to give you a slap when you were naughty. Why, once when you threw your dinner onto the floor in a rage I took your knickers down and smacked your bare bum.'

'Well I'm too old for that sort of thing now,' I giggled.

'You're never too old my dear,' said Auntie darkly. 'Now, what do you intend doing tonight?'

I told her I had arranged to meet Billy, but I had no idea where we were going.

'Don't go into any public houses my dear, you're not old enough.'

I didn't tell her that was the intention... I looked older than my sixteen years, biggish bust etc. I didn't go drinking a lot at home, just the occasional glass of cider or shandy.

I put on my fancy underwear, some that my mother had never seen, a friend of my sister's had given them to me. Black frilly panties, and a bra with two holes cut in the front for my nipples to peep through. I felt delightfully wicked and grown up wearing them. I smoothed my hands over my body, wondering what it would be like if Billy did that! I didn't put much make-up on, somehow I felt that Auntie would frown at me wearing make-up, that would wait until later.

Billy had arranged to meet me at seven-thirty outside a public house on Mansfield Road, and he was late and I felt very embarrassed standing outside. All sorts of men tried to chat me up and invited me in for a drink. I was very grateful when I saw Billy. He had another boy with him and a girl, Mark and Sheila. Sheila was eighteen and ever so nice, she made me feel comfortable straight away. I told Billy I had promised auntie I would be home by eleven o'clock.

'A right little Cinderella,' he laughed, 'home before the last stroke of midnight!'

'Last stroke of eleven,' I corrected. 'She will worry if I am home late... anyway she has promised me a spanking if I am a naughty girl.'

That made them all laugh!

Later Mark and Sheila went off on their own, intending to go to the Palais. I would have loved to have gone, but it would make me very late, and I didn't want to upset auntie on my first day. I felt a little bit tipsy when we left the public house, I'd had a lot of cider, and I had to cling onto Billy's arm as he walked me home.

We stood in the porch kissing and cuddling. He caressed my breasts over my jumper at first, then he slid his hand up while kissing me. When he felt my nipples through the holes he kissed me more passionately.

'You're very sexy,' he panted, obviously very worked up. I could feel him throbbing against my leg. He then put his hand up my skirt and between my legs. I started to breathe heavily, the way he touched me was beautiful. He took my hand and placed it between his own legs, he had taken his penis out and it felt very hard. Oh but I wanted him to make love to me, but not there on auntie's front porch, it was too dangerous, I knew she was still up, the light was on in the lounge. I made him stop it, but he insisted I play with his penis while he caressed me. This I did, until with a groan he ejaculated.

It was just turning eleven when he went.

'Enjoyed yourself dear?' asked auntie when I got in. 'Where did you go tonight?'

I told her that we had just walked around the town, seeing as it was a warm evening. I sat down on the sofa, and I noticed auntie staring at me thoughtfully. Then I remembered my skirt, there was a damp stain where Billy had ejaculated. I hurriedly covered it with my hand, muttering that we'd had a glass of lemonade and I'd spilt some. She just nodded, thin-lipped. When I went to the bathroom I sponged the stuff away!

I had just taken my jumper and skirt off when auntie came in my bedroom with a cup of Horlicks for me. I'd forgotten, she always brought me a nightcap to bed. She took one look at me in my fancy underwear and nearly dropped the cup in her astonishment.

'Does your mother know you have such underwear?' she wanted to know.

'Oh yes auntie,' I lied, 'she was with me when I bought them.'

She put the cup of Horlicks on the bedside table. 'Well I think they are positively disgusting, and please don't wear them again while you are staying with me. Girls who go on the streets wear such underclothes, not sixteen-year-old girls. Now drink up your Horlicks, you can have a lie-in tomorrow. I'll bring your breakfast to you in bed, then we'll go to church for the morning service.'

Auntie Gladys was a devout church-goer, that was the only thing I hated about staying with her, going to church every Sunday morning... the Vicar had clammy hands! I lay in bed that night thinking about dear Billy, and what we had done. I had never touched a boy before, not down there anyway, and it had given me a great thrill. I felt all itchy thinking about it, so I opened my legs and played with myself until I had an orgasm. I don't think I did anything wrong by masturbating, most girls at sixteen do such things.

We sat next to Mr and Mrs Underwood in church, and their son, Ken, the same age as me.

'Now there is a nice boy,' whispered auntie. 'Well brought up and very polite.'

Personally he made me sick, always had done. When small he would cry at the slightest thing, and he was a cheat and a tell-tale. Once when pinching some apples when I was fourteen he had told auntie and she had been cross with me. So I was very cool to him. To make it worse, auntie had invited Ken for Sunday tea.

'I'm going out with Billy again tonight,' I whispered in alarm.

'Well you'll have to ring him up and say you can't make it,' she said. That put me in a bad mood straight away.

Sunday afternoon I went for a walk with auntie around the park. She spotted Billy before I did. 'Look, go and tell him you aren't coming out tonight.'

At least I would be close to him, if only for a few seconds. Billy told me not to worry, he would see me tomorrow night, his parents were going out. I would be able to spend the evening alone with him. My heart beat wildly in my chest, alone with Billy in his home, we would be able to make love properly, no-one to disturb us.

Ken was his usual obnoxious self, though auntie fawned over him like a long-lost son. I decided to have a bit of fun with him, see if he had any natural feelings in his body. I deliberately hitched my skirt up before crossing my legs, knowing he would be able to see the tops of my stockings. At first he ignored me, then his eyes kept flickering across. I pulled my skirt higher and parted my legs. Now he would be able to see the gusset of my white knickers. Suddenly he asked to be excused and went to the toilet. I smiled to myself. Now what had he gone to the toilet for... to play with himself? When he had left the room auntie glared at me.

'Maureen!' she snapped. 'Please pull down your skirt, most immodest. You are making Ken feel embarrassed, showing all your legs.'

'Sorry auntie,' I murmured, and pulled down my skirt to a more modest level. Of course, a few minutes after he came back, looking flushed I thought, it managed to ride high again. I was turning a boring evening into quite a pleasant one. When it was time for Ken to go, auntie suggested I walk part of the way with him. Heavens, he only lived around the corner, on Lucknow Drive.

Just around the corner he gave me the surprise of my life. He pushed me against the wall, kissing me hotly and trying to run his hand up my skirt. I pushed him away, telling him to behave himself.

'Let me touch you Maureen, just once, honest. I won't try anything else.'

'Indeed I won't,' I stormed. 'I'm not that sort of girl!'

'Please,' he panted, 'you've been teasing me all the night, making me want to touch you, showing me your... your legs.'

He pushed his hand up my skirt again. This time I smacked him across the face. 'Stop it Ken, or I'll scream!'

That frightened him to death, he kept away from me. 'I'll bet you let Billy play with you,' he muttered.

'It's nothing to do with you what Billy and I do... anyway he's older than you are!' I left him then and went home. Auntie was surprised.

'You're back quick,' she said.

'I do not like Kenneth Underwood,' I said. 'He... he is sloppy and coarse, and anyway his hands are sticky!'

That amused auntie for a few moments, then she said: 'You were teasing him tonight Maureen, something a girl of your age should never do. Ken is just growing up, and staring at your legs all night made him act the way he did.' She half smiled. 'I used to tease the boys when I was young, but not as young as you! Now run off to bed like a good girl, Ken will be feeling very ashamed of himself at this moment.'

In a way I felt quite gratified that I had teased Ken into making a pass towards me. He wanted me, and Billy wanted me. Maybe after I had let Billy make love to me, I would let Ken touch me where he wanted.

The following morning I stayed with auntie, helping her to clean her large house. Mrs Underwood came around and invited me to go for tea on the Wednesday, and stay for a few hours.

'Ken has some lovely records he would like you to hear. You can sit in the lounge, we won't disturb you!'

This was getting to be a conspiracy between auntie and Mrs Underwood, trying to pair us off.

'She'll be glad to come,' said auntie, for me. 'I'll send her around about four.'

I was getting my dates made for me!

I put on my fancy underwear before going out to meet Billy; I was talcumed and perfumed, ready for anything. Auntie didn't like the idea of me meeting Billy again, and she gave me a bit of a lecture before I set off.

'Just slap his hands and leave if he does anything you don't want him to.'

I promised I would, but I couldn't see him doing anything I didn't want him to.

We had a few ciders first, waiting for his mum and dad to get out of the way, then went to his home. He played a few Frank Sinatra records as we cuddled on the sofa. He got very excited of course, and so did I, and I made no objection when he pulled my knickers down. How can a girl describe the first time she makes love all the way? To me it was two things, painful yet exciting. I was so in love with the boy, I adored the closeness of his body, and after it was all over I told him I loved him very much. A little later he made love to me again, and it wasn't as painful, more like the beautiful experience I had read about.

It was when I got back that it really got to me!

I lay in bed shivering, worried to death. What if I had a baby? Would auntie know what had happened by looking at my face. I clambered from the bed and stared at myself in the long wardrobe mirror. My breasts looked a bit different, a bit swollen, and there was a mark on the right one where Billy had sucked me in his excitement. I examined between my thighs. I didn't look any different there, only felt a little sore, which was natural after what had happened. Then I had a good cry. I don't know to this day whether I cried because I was sorry to lose my virginity, or whether it was a cry of relief!

I went with a heavy heart to Ken's house for tea. I was dreading it, I felt sure that he would try it on with me again, and I didn't want that. I was in love with Billy, and I couldn't bare the thought of Ken mauling me about. We had a nice tea, and afterwards we went into the lounge to listen to records. I didn't mean to tease the boy, but I must have done; he kept staring at my legs. Everytime I caught him, I would push my skirt down over my knees. Anyway, the inevitable happened, he started messing about. I told him to stop, but he wouldn't; kissing me, trying to slide his hand under my skirt, and pawing my breasts.

In the end, this constant pawing aroused me, and I relaxed, returning his kisses and letting him feel me about. I was surprised that I could feel sexy with Ken, when so in love with Billy, but I was, and was ready for anything he wanted to do. He had my jumper pushed up around my neck, kissing my nipples, his hand between my legs, under the knicker elastic, his finger pushing in and out of my vagina. The lounge door opened and there stood Mrs Underwood with a tray in her hand. She gasped, and I hurriedly pushed down my skirt and straightened my jumper.

'How disgusting!' she said. 'Maureen, I think you had better go back to your aunties at once. My husband will see you home.'

Mr Underwood took me home in silence, and at the gate he took my hand.

'I'm not angry,' he said, with a smile. 'I was once sixteen!'

When I went in auntie was waiting for me, a stern expression on her face. 'Mrs Underwood had just phoned and told me why you are home early. She is most distressed that this has happened. Ken doesn't go out with many girls, he is shy and reserved, yet a few moments with you, and well... it was disgusting.'

'It wasn't my fault,' I protested. 'He started it, I couldn't stop him!

'I saw the way you behaved on Sunday, showing him your legs and knickers. No doubt you did the same thing this evening, leading him on, making him act the way he did. You wanted him to... to touch you. I am annoyed with you Maureen, Mrs Underwood is a good friend of mine, what is she going to think now? You gave that boy immoral thoughts.' I sat down and sulked. It was so unfair, he had started it; if he had behaved himself it would never have happened, anyway I was in love with Billy. I told auntie that. Her face darkened. 'I see. If you are in love with this Billy I dread to think what you get up to with him! I'm going to teach you a lesson Maureen. A long time ago I spanked you for being naughty. Now I am going to spank you again. I am sure that your mother would agree were she here.' She sat down on a hard-back chair. I stared at her.

'You must be joking!' I exclaimed. 'You can't spank me, I'm sixteen.'

'I don't care how old you are. You have misbehaved tonight, caused Mrs Underwood a great deal of distress. No doubt she will punish Ken in her own way, and it is only right that I should punish you. Now come over here and lay across my lap.'

I hesitated, the colour flooding to my cheeks. At sixteen I was very conscious of my body, and showing my bottom, even to my auntie, would cause me embarrassment.

'I told you to come here Maureen,' said auntie, in a tone of voice I had never heard her use before. 'If you insist on disobeying me I will have no alternative but to send you home with a letter explaining why. I am going to spank you, then I can tell Mrs Underwood that you have been punished for your disgusting behaviour.'

'It wasn't disgusting,' I muttered. 'It was nice!'

I shouldn't have said that, I knew it the moment the words came out. Auntie's face went grim, her lips set in a tight line. I looked down at the carpet, knowing I would have to be spanked, it was the lesser of two evils. It would upset my mother if I was sent home under such circumstances. Slowly I got up.

'What do you want me to do?' I asked in a small voice.

'Pull your skirt up and lay across my lap.'

Thank goodness I hadn't my sexy underwear on, that would have made auntie even more angry. I lay across her lap, feeling very exposed, my skirt pulled up to my waist. It seemed ages before she started to spank me. She pulled at my knickers, making them stretch across my bottom, settled herself comfortably, then brought her hand down. Crack! It seemed to explode and I jerked as a dart of stinging pain went through me. Crack, down came her hand again, landing in exactly the same place. I wriggled and squirmed.

'Keep still,' commanded auntie, 'or it will be the worse for you.'

She gave me six hard spanks on my bottom, each one seemed more painful than the last, and when she released me there were tears in my eyes.

'Don't think I enjoyed that Maureen,' she said, 'because I didn't. I do not like punishing anyone, least of all a mature young woman. Now get off to bed and we'll say no more about it.'

I went to my bedroom and got undressed. My bottom felt to be on fire, but it was only slightly reddened when I examined it in the mirror. As I lay in bed I became aware of a warmth running through my loins. My bottom didn't feel as painful to the touch any more. I fell into a troubled sleep, my mind filling with strange thoughts. Billy was spanking me, on my bare backside while Ken watched, in a sort of gleeful fascination. Then it all changed. I was making love to Ken, not in the proper position, but with me on top of him, and all the time we loved, Billy was spanking my bare bottom. When I awoke I was covered in perspiration, my hand between my legs. My mind was in a turmoil, I couldn't get rid of the strange images in my brain. I lay in the darkness trembling with sexual excitement, my fingers caressing down below. Billy would never spank me, not like auntie did, so hard. His spanks would be caresses, loving caresses. Or would they? Would he get as excited as me when spanking me. Would I like to spank his bare bottom. I moaned to myself as an intense orgasm swept through me. Then I fell asleep again, and didn't dream anymore.

For the next two weeks I did behave myself, I only went out with Billy once, and all we did was pet each other. I saw Ken a couple of times and studiously ignored him. As for Mrs Underwood, every time she saw me she swept by me like a darn duchess! On Thursday nights auntie went to the whist drive. I had been twice with her, but didn't enjoy it. A whist drive isn't the place for a sixteen-year-old, having old men playing 'kneesie' under the table. Horrid I thought. So I arranged to meet Billy, telling auntie I had a headache. She nodded knowingly.

'I understand dear,' she said sympathetically, 'I had a lot of trouble when I was your age.' I didn't bother to tell her how wrong she was!

Billy must have watched for her leaving, because he was in the house within a couple of minutes, jacket off, snogging and caressing me on the sofa! He had me half undressed before I knew, telling me how beautiful I was, and how much he wanted to take me to bed and love me properly. So we went to my bedroom and got on the bed. I didn't take all my clothes off, I kept my knickers on. This was even better than making love on the sofa, we could be more intimate with each other. Just as he was about to come over me, I asked him if I could come over him. He was very pleased, closing his legs so that I could sink down onto his erect penis. As soon as I felt his hands clasp my bottom I was filled with a strange urge.

'Slap me,' I muttered. 'Not hard, but just taps.'

And he did, not hard, but light stinging slaps that made me very passionate. I had an orgasm before he did, and managed to get away before he ejaculated. When we got up from the bed I just pulled my knickers on, then slipped my jumper and skirt over them. I wasn't going out anywhere, I didn't need my bra, and anyway, I wanted him to caress my bare breasts again before he left me.

We sat on the sofa, cuddling and kissing, and quite forgot the time, until the front door opened and in walked auntie. I just managed to get my jumper down and my skirt straightened before she came into the lounge. Her eyes raked over us, and I glanced down at Billy. His flies were undone, and he hurriedly covered them with his hand.

'I thought you had a headache Maureen?' asked auntie.

'I had, but it's gone now.'

'I can see that.' I didn't like the tone in her voice. 'I think you had better leave young man, it is getting very late.'

Billy got up and put his jacket on.

'Good night,' he murmured, red in the face.

When he had gone auntie sat in the chair and gazed steadily at me. 'You must think I am an idiot Maureen. Tell me, why haven't you got a bra on?'

Instinctively I looked down. My nipples were jutting the front of my jumper, making it obvious I was braless.

'I am beginning to think you are becoming somewhat of a slut,' she said, evenly. 'My spanking the other night didn't do anything for you. Don't try and interrupt me. You lied tonight when you said you had a headache. You were expecting that young man to call. Why didn't you tell me?' I didn't answer, I stared down at the rug. 'I suppose you have been doing with him what you were doing with young Ken. I am not having it Maureen, even if I have to spank you black and blue. Go on like this and I'm going to have every boy in town hanging around my front gate looking for you. This time I am going to spank you very hard, last time was not hard enough, you haven't learned your lesson.'

'Weren't you ever young auntie? Didn't you ever have any boy friends who... who wanted to... touch you?'

She took a deep breath. 'The only boy I ever had was your Uncle Sid, and we waited until we were married before we did anything like that. Come across my knee young lady.' I sighed heavily and got up. If it would satisfy her she could spank me. I lifted up my skirt and lay dutifully across her knees, and thinking about what Billy and I had done in my bed earlier.

She spanked me three times over my knickers and I didn't make a movement. I hardly felt anything, and anyway I was concentrating on Billy. Then, to my chagrin she put her hand in the waistband of my knickers and drew them down to the backs of my knees. My bottom was bare and vulnerable! I felt awful on her knee in that position, knowing what she could see of my body.

The blow landed and I cried out. 'Ouch, auntie, that hurt!'

'It is meant to hurt,' she said grimly, 'I'm not giving you love taps.'

Her hand came down again with a slap that seemed to echo around the room. It was terrible, I could feel my buttocks quivering and burning. Her hand came down again and again, slap, thwack, slap, thwack, until I felt to be on fire. I started to sob, but give her more vigour.

'I'll teach you young lady,' she growled, laying her hand into me fast and hard. 'Before I have finished with you, you will be sleeping on your tummy.'

Tears were streaming down my cheeks, blinding me. All I could see was the blur of the carpet. When she stopped I tumbled from her lap and sank to the floor, crying bitterly. Her face streamed with perspiration, and I got a little satisfaction when she rubbed her hands, as though they hurt her. They ought to, the number of times she had spanked me.

'Now get off to bed, Maureen. If you do anything like this again I will more than spank you, I will cane you!'

That put the fear of God in me. I had once been caned at school, and the memory will live with me forever!

I stumbled up the stairs and got ready for bed. I tried to bathe my sore bottom, but even luke-warm water was painful. She was right. I couldn't sleep on my bottom, I had to sleep on my tummy.

It was three days before I felt any-think like. Needless to say I behaved myself for the rest of my stay, never being alone with Billy.

Now to something that may surprise you. For a few years I didn't visit auntie, going on holiday with friends, until I was twenty-two and went to stay with her for a week. I met Ken again that week; we made love on our second date. We fell in love, and now he is my husband. He told me that his mother had spanked him the night she caught us petting. We spank for pleasure, not punishment, we are both stimulated by the act. I don't get a very sore bottom, not like when auntie spanked, more a pleasant tingling that sets my loins on fire. There is a huge difference between being spanked because you are naughty, than being spanked for fun.

Oooch!

Story from London Life Vol.1 No.2.

Oooch!


Duncan watched the girl sway from his office and sighed heavily. Elaine was becoming somewhat of a problem, and he was beginning to wish he had never said he would employ her. Of course the girl had to work somewhere, and in some ways she was an efficient secretary, but he didn't care for the way she tried to dominate his entire life, public as well as private. His wife was getting suspicious, even though there were no grounds for her to do so. But it was odd, every time his wife rang the office, or came to see him, Elaine was always present, standing closer than she needed to, flirting with him in a way. Duncan smiled ruefully, it wouldn't be so bad if she flirted with him when they were alone, she was an attractive girl, but when his wife was around, well, that was courting disaster. He wondered if London girls were all alike!

When the Woking office had closed down, Elaine had been only too pleased to travel to Scotland, she had an aunt in Prestwick, so she stayed with her, and the money had pleased her. Oh yes, the girl was efficient, but it was her manner that disturbed him. The other day, he made an error on a customer's account, Eileen had spotted it, but instead of returning the document to his office for him to correct, she had done it herself, making sure that the Head Office at Bristol had known who had done the correction. It had been a very nasty ten minutes on the telephone with the M.D. All Elaine had done was smile her apologies.

'I am sorry Mr. McGregor,' she murmured, 'I had no idea you would get into trouble, the M.D. is such a nice man.'

'I wonder how Bill Jason got on with her,' he muttered to himself.

Jason had been her former employer in Woking, he was now at Leeds. He dialled the outside line himself, not wanting Elaine to know what he was doing.

'Bill,' he said, almost in a whisper in case the girl was listening outside the door. 'I want to ask you about Elaine. She's a good secretary, but she has one or two traits that I don't like. For example, she flirts with me in front of the wife, making out that we are a lot closer than we are, and there was that business the other day when she landed me in it with the M.D. I have no real reason to fire her, yet, if this goes on I will be out of a job... and a wife as well. Mary is sure that there is something going on between my secretary and myself. What was she like with you?'

There was a slight pause. 'Take her in hand old man, and I mean in hand. She used to try it on with me, I reckon she is over-sexed! One of the guys in the Export Office was screwing her brains out, and the things he used to tell me! I didn't rise to her bait, and as she couldn't seduce me, she did the next best thing, spread a few lies around the office that I was a dirty old man who kept stroking her thighs when she stood near me. The guy in the Export Office threatened me with grievous bodily harm! Know what I did old man? I called her into my office, put her across my knee and spanked her bottom! That cured her as far as I was concerned.'

'That was a bit drastic!' exclaimed Duncan. 'She could have had you for assault or something.'

'Not her,' laughed Jason, 'I reckon she enjoyed it. Then I had her moved to the Export Office where she could torment her lover. Take her in hand Duncan, it's the only thing she understands.'

McGregor replaced the receiver thoughtfully. He knew all about corporal punishment, he had two sons! But thrashing a person who was not a member of the family was quite different. Something had to be done though, and done swiftly before things got out of hand. He had the feeling that Elaine was either after a higher position in the office... such as his job, or moving to Bristol to work for the M.D., or she was deliberately seducing him. He thought about her trim body and wondered what she would be like in bed. He shook his head, dismissing the lustful thought and picked up the papers Elaine had left for him to sign.

Hidden among the papers he found a letter, on pink scented notepaper. It was typed, but he recognised the typewriter, it was a special one, very expensive, and it belonged to Elaine.

'Dear Mrs. McGregor,' he read, 'I feel that I ought to warn you about your husband. Most of the girls who work with him are afraid of him. It isn't that he is a stern or strict man, but he cannot keep his hands to himself. One of the juniors caught him the other day misbehaving himself and looking at a disgusting magazine.

Yours truly,
A well-wisher.'

'Good God,' muttered Duncan. 'The little bitch!' He got up from his desk and strode around the office, muttering to himself. If his wife had received that letter there would have been eruptions. Of course there wasn't a grain of truth in the letter, never once had he allowed his band to stray anywhere near the staff. He wondered how to deal with the situation. Then he remembered, in the bottom drawer of his desk was a strap, it had been there some time. His wife had brought it, along with his eldest son, he had punished the boy in the office for some misdeed, he forgot what it was. Yes, the strap was still there. It was what Elaine needed, a good sound strapping. He leaned against the desk thoughtfully. He could ask Mrs. Dunn from Filing to administer the punishment, years ago she had been a school-mistress, the task would be commonplace for her. He rang Filing, but Mrs. Dunn had gone home pleading a headache. He made up his mind, he would do it himself, if Bill Jason could spank the girl, so could he! He switched on the intercom.

'Elaine, will you come in here please.'

When she came in, smiling as usual, he asked her to close the door, lock it and pass him the key. Her eyes opened in wonderment at his request, then her smile became more seductive as she perched on the edge of a chair, her skirt pulled well back revealing plenty of shapely thigh. Duncan picked up the scented letter from his desk and tossed it onto her lap.

'Did you write that?' he asked.

He didn't need a reply, he could tell by her face that she was as guilty as hell! She blushed and stammered out some reply.

'I hope you realise that I could have you dismissed for this? I have a mind to pin this on the office notice board with my comments.'

'Oh, don't do that Mr. McGregor,' stammered the girl, 'My aunt... she would be heartbroken.'

He turned his back to her and gazed out of the window, his heart thudding in his chest. 'Stand up Elaine, put your hands on the back of the chair.'

'What... what are you going to do... sir?'

That was the first time she had called him sir! He turned to face her.

'I am going to spank you Elaine... not the first time you have been spanked I understand. You will lift up your skirt... now.'

She stared at him for a few moments, a pretty blush coming over her face, then she slowly and seductively lifted her skirt until her knickers were visible. Once he saw her bottom he wouldn't be interested in beating her, he would be more interested in what lay between her slender legs! She knew men, she knew what the sight of her underwear did to them.

He walked round and looked at her, noting her plump derriere, her white knickers stretched tautly across, the crease between the cheeks outlined sharply. She had her legs slightly apart, making her look more inviting than ever. For a moment he hesitated, then he thought of the havoc the letter could have caused if the stupid girl hadn't left it among the papers. He raised his hand, and Elaine, caught her breath. He spanked her sharply across the cheeks, hard enough for him to feel the sting in his hand. She cried out, her bottom muscles tensing, the nylon knickers crinkling slightly. He spanked her again, and she straightened her back as the pain shot through her.


He put one hand on her back so that she couldn't escape, and began to spank her soundly, ignoring her cries of anguish and embarrassment. Her knickers slowly worked down until he could see the base of her spine. Suddenly, on impulse he pulled her knickers over her hips, baring her smarting pink bottom.


'No Mr. McGregor,' she cried.

'Yes Elaine,' he murmured, and struck her hard across the quivering cheeks. The sound of his slap echoed around the office, and he spanked her steadily until the pink went crimson, and his arm ached, and only then did he stop. She eased her knickers back up painfully.

'You hurt me sir,' she muttered, tears in her eyes.

'I meant to Elaine. Now go back to your desk, and nothing more will be said about this.'

A few minutes later he had a thought, he didn't know why, but he opened his office door and looked across at his secretary. She had the phone in her hand.

'Mrs. McGregor, I think you ought to know...'

He bounded across the office and put his fingers on the phone, cutting the connection.

He grabbed her and almost dragged the girl back into his office. She stood by the desk, trembling from head to foot, staring wildly as Duncan opened the desk drawer and took out a vicious looking leather strap.

'I usually use this strap on my sons,' he said, grimly, 'when they have misbehaved, but never, in their lives, have they done or tried to do anything as nasty as you!' He sat down on his office chair. 'Come here young woman, and drape yourself across my lap, I am going to teach you a lesson. It seems Bill Jason didn't punish you severely enough at Woking, you have not learned your lesson.'

She moved around the desk very slowly, her eyes wide with fear. 'I... I will tell my aunt,' she croaked.

'No doubt your aunt will agree with me. She is a Scotswoman and believes in corporal punishment, and she will agree with my choice of punishment.'

The girl stood near to him and lifted her skirt up, still hoping that a sight of her shapely thighs and tight white knickers would be enough to make him think of other things. At that moment she would gladly have pulled her knickers down and offered her body to him, anything to avoid the beating. But from the look in Duncan's eyes she knew she was wasting her time. She hitched her skirt up around her waist and lay across Duncan's lap so that her knicker-covered bottom faced up at him. For some moments he stared at it, the roundness, the deep cleft between the cheeks, the way her thighs flattened against his. Could he bring himself to thrash such a lovely backside? He hooked his fingers into the waist elastic, paused a moment longer, then brought the strap down with a resounding thwack on her bottom.


'Oo... ooow! ' cried Elaine, wriggling in pain on his lap. 'You're hurting me sir.'

'Good,' he gritted. Now that he had struck the first blow he relaxed. He thrashed her ceaselessly six times, and it seemed to the sobbing girl on his lap that each stroke was harder, and cut into her plump flesh.


'Oooh!' she whimpered, 'you are cruel Mr. McGregor, you have scarred me.'

He pulled her knickers down over her sore backside, making her wince as the nylon rasped on her. Her bottom was a dull red, marks an inch or so wide across the cheeks.

'Mmm!' she murmured, and it seemed to Duncan that her exclamation wasn't one of pain. He touched the rosy skin, it felt very hot, and as his hand trailed lower she opened her thighs so that he could see wisps of pubic hair. 'Touch me,' she whimpered, 'please Duncan, touch me.'

He held his fingers an inch away from the vee of her thighs, the muscles in his arms taut, then he slowly lowered his hand until he was brushing against the inside of her thigh. The girl moaned again and pressed herself closer to him.

'I've got him!' she thought to herself. 'I can feel him getting stiff, he wants me, and I will let him make love to me, here, in his office, and then, oh, and then, he will do anything I say. I will know everything about him, the way he is, things that only a lover would know. Mmm, come on Duncan, touch me more intimately!'

Her legs widened and his fingers trembled as they went nearer to her most secret part. He could feel the warm moisture.

'No!' he shouted, suddenly, and he brought the strap down hard against her sensuous, squirming backside.

Elaine shrieked out, her body stiffened as the strap cut into her flesh. Her hands curled into fists as he rained blow after blow on her exposed flesh. The severity of the thrashing drove all sexual thoughts from her mind, no longer did she feel desire, only a cutting thud as the strap wrought justice. Tears streamed from her eyes as the throbbing in her bottom spread through her, and, when at last he called it a day, she rose to her feet, staggered, then leaned against the desk, resting her hands on the top. Her skirt was still bunched around her waist, and she looked a delightful and erotic sight. Her knickers trapped by her knees, her buttocks glowing red, the skin tight. Elaine tried once more to appease the man. She turned to face him and showed her hairy vee.

'You won't beat me again Mr. McGregor, will you?' she whispered. He turned his head away, his mind was spinning. Thrashing the wilful girl had had a strange effect on him. His anger during the beating had turned to something else, something very much akin to passion!

'Please go Elaine, and remember, if you ever misbehave again, you will be strapped. There is a lot of work for you to do, now get out.'

That evening, when he went home from work he took the strap with him.

'Oh Duncan, I wondered where it had got to,' said his wife, greeting her husband with a kiss. 'I had completely forgotten!'

He slumped in a chair. 'I used it today Mary, on Elaine.'

He told her what had happened at the office, and his reason for spanking and strapping the girl. It was the only thing for him to do, Elaine could decide to tell everyone what her boss had done! When he had finished Mary sat on his knee and put her arms around his neck.

'I am not surprised the child felt the way she did after you had strapped her, do you remember, years ago, when you actually strapped me for flirting with Bruce Kennedy... and what happened afterwards?'

He stared up at the ceiling, remembering. 'That was years ago Mary.'

She nuzzled into his ear and reached out for the strap.

'I saw Bruce this afternoon Duncan, he has asked me to meet him one evening, and we could have dinner... and something, together! Now doesn't that deserve a beating? I mean, Bruce, and I...'

They went upstairs arm in arm, the strap swinging freely between them. Oh yes, Duncan remembered alright, and there was a tingle in his loins as he opened the bedroom door and Mary lifted her dress up before laying face down on the bed. She smiled up at him.

'I do need a strapping Duncan,' she whispered. 'I am tempted to go out with Bruce.'

The strap whistled through the air, and... but perhaps we had better draw a curtain over the next half hour, what a couple do in the privacy of their bedroom has nothing to do with us!

Jane's Revenge On Roberta

Story from London Life Vol.1 No.4

Jane's Revenge On Roberta

"Come along Jane" said my mother, "take your punishment without all this fuss and get it over. Dick's been brave about his and I hope Charlie will be the same." Dick's tear-streaked face didn't suggest much bravery, and Charlie showed no more relish at what was coming than I did!

In addition to my mum and dad, there are four of us in the family — our elder sister Roberta who is twenty now and is soon to marry; then I and Charlie who are twins; and Dick the youngest at fourteen. As long as we could remember, Roberta had always annoyed the rest of us with her nauseatingly priggish good behaviour. She boasted that she had never been whipped by our parents because she respected and honoured them, whereas I and my brothers were always in trouble and often at the receiving end of the cane, and — in Roberta's opinion — deserving stern punishment for our bad behaviour.

The day before yesterday, a Saturday, mum, dad and Roberta had gone up to London by train to attend a flower show and after that to have a meal with Roberta's fiance Trevor Taylor and his parents before returning home by an evening train. I didn't take much to Trevor, but his parents were well off, so Roberta and mum and dad were naturally very keen for the marriage to go through.

Well, when they got back from London it did not need more than a glance in the garage from dad's eagle eye to see that his precious new car was not exactly in the position in which he had left it, and that the front offside wing was scratched and dented. There followed a nasty cross-questioning of us three by mum and dad, with Roberta smirking in the background, and it all came out. After they had left for London we had managed to find the ignition key. We had started the car and had driven it in reverse down the drive, and then backwards and backwards a few times before the inevitable happened, and Dick, when his turn came round, clipped the wing smartly against the garage door post, doing the damage that dad had been so quick to detect.

At least we hadn't taken the car on the road and we were given credit for that degree of restraint; but mum and dad were naturally hopping mad that they couldn't leave us three for more than a few hours without our getting into a scrape. As we had feared and expected, we were sentenced to a caning — Charlie and me to ten strokes each because, as the elders, we ought to have known better, and Dick to six as a reminder not to become involved in our pranks in the future. The punishments were to be inflicted the following evening, Sunday, at bedtime which would give us twenty four hours to reflect on our sins and think about what was coming to us. On such occasions the usual routine was for us to be given an early supper by ourselves, then to have our baths and change into pyjamas or nightgown, and then troop down to the sitting room where mum and dad would be waiting, as they were on the evening I'm writing about.

Dad had unlocked his bureau and had taken out one of his canes — a nasty three-foot rattan with a curved handle. Mum moved an armchair into the middle of the room. Dick was ordered to undo his girdle and let his pyjama trousers drop to the floor. (Nakedness was no surprise in our family as we all often went to a nearby sunbathing and nudist club in the summer, and we often went about the house without clothes as our parents have progressive ideas in this respect.) Dick, knowing the form, then bent over the back of the chair, while mum knelt on the scat of the chair and held out her hands so that Dick could grasp her wrists to steady himself. Charlie and I looked on, waiting our turn. Apprehensive as I was, I could not help but be interested to see the effect produced by such occasions on my brothers: they are both well developed physically, and so too am I, but the excitement of a caning showed itself in Dick and Charlie as boys in a way that was deeply interesting to me as a girl. Well, Charlie bent over the chair back, and his physical state was temporarily concealed. Dad beckoned to me and Charlie to stand in such a position that we could see every stroke as clearly as possible, for he wanted all stages of the punishment to make a lasting impression on us.

He raised his arm, and the cane cracked down crisply across Dick's bare buttocks, instantly making a straight pink line on the white flesh. "One!" called mum. Down came the cane again, about half an inch below the previous stroke. "Two!" cried mum. Dick stirred uneasily but uttered no sound. Dad, enraged over the damage to his precious car, was determined to evoke some reaction from Dick, and so the third and fourth strokes, each of which mum carefully counted, had more steam in them, overlapping the previous two strokes and making Dick utter a groan. Mum comforted him and bade him hold tight. Dad's fifth stroke was delivered with full force and a fresh groan arose from Dick's lips, but I could not help noticing that the look on his face was not only one of pain but also of excitement which the sixth and final stroke seemed to bring to a climax. As Dick released his grip on mum's wrists and stood up, I could see that he no longer displayed the physical evidence of excitement that had been so noticeable before the caning started. I guessed that the experience had not been altogether unpleasant to Dick, and this was confirmed when he gave me a surreptitious wink as he pulled on his pyjama trousers and came over to stand with me and Charlie.

Now it was my turn. As I've already told you, I didn't relish the prospect and mum had to coax me to take the punishment and get it over. Usually dad caned the boys and mum caned me, which was some consolation as Mum's canings were naturally not as severe as dad's. I backed away when mum told me to lift my nightgown above my waist and bend over the chair. Mum threatened to call in Roberta to help her if I made any more fuss. That was something I could definitely do without, so I yielded to the inevitable and draped myself over the chairback, and gripped dad's outstretched wrists to help me to hold myself still. Mum made Dick and Charlie draw near to see the effect of the caning at close range. The little brutes were of course delighted to do so, as my exposed position bent double over the chair with my nightie round my waist and my pink and shapely buttocks pointed ceiling-wards revealed moist, curl-fringed details of my anatomy that they were always keen to scrutinise!

Mum, not being so methodical and systematic as dad, applied the first four strokes one after the other at high speed with no pause between each stroke. The shock of stinging pain made me writhe like a cut worm, but I kept a firm grasp on dad who murmured words of encouragement to me to be brave. The fifth and sixth strokes were much more effectively applied by mum, who paused to count twenty between each stroke, and each time brought the cane down on the lines of the previous strokes, making me yell out and begin to stand up.

"Jane, bend down again at once," Mum said, "you've still four strokes to come!" "No, I won't," I said rebelliously, "I'm too old to be caned like this!" "Oh, is that so, my fine lady," said mum sarcastically, "it seems to me from your immature prank with dad's car that you are still quite young enough to be whipped and that you have really got to be made to feel the kiss of the rod if this punishment is to be effective. Charlie, call Roberta in to help me!"

Roberta was delighted to be called in. She had always loved lording it over us younger ones, and for her to take a hand in a family caning was a great treat to her. I'm well developed for my age, but Roberta, more than three years my senior, was much more fully grown, tall, well built and with fine 36-24-36 statistics. From that you can guess that she is much stronger than mum.

"Now, Roberta," said mum, "Jane still has four strokes to come, and I want you to make her really feel them. Your dad and I are sure that Jane is the ringleader in the car business, and as Jane has been trying to avoid her punishment it is all the more important that she should be genuinely sorry for her misbehaviour."

I realised that if I made any more fuss there was a risk that dad himself might apply the final four strokes to my long-suffering bottom. I certainly didn't want that, so I meekly pulled up my nightie and bent over the chair again, while Roberta eagerly took the cane from mum.

Roberta's first stroke was not very accurate, landing below the folds of my buttocks on the top of my thighs, and stinging abominably. God may have designed buttocks specially for whipping, but he certainly didn't intend thighs for that purpose! "Careful, Roberta," said mum, "make sure you hit her bottom only. If you hit her thighs you may break the skin." Roberta's next stroke was right on the fullness of my rounded posterior, and by now, despite the pain a pleasing sense of warmth was pervading me. Spontaneous contractions pulsed rhythmically through my buttocks and I had the feeling that the deep cleft between them was opening and closing with each contraction. It was only with great effort of will that I stopped their pulsing beat for I had a suspicion that Roberta, being no stranger to physical contact with the other sex, would guess what voluptuous sensations I was experiencing and would re-double her efforts to hurt me out of spite.

Roberta's next move was a shrewd one. She had stepped back a pace on my left side so that the silk-bound tip of the cane landed accurately and very painfully in the middle of my right buttock. She then walked round to my right side and made the tip of the cane land with devestating effect on the middle of my left buttock. My voluptuous sensations came abruptly to an end! A self-satisfied smile spread over Roberta's face. The bitch, I'll get even with her, I vowed to myself. My nightie was pulled down over my reddened and stinging bottom and I was made to stand beside Dick while Charlie took up his position over the chairback, with his pyjama trousers down, and gripped mum's proffered wrists.

Dad had been much impressed with Roberta's potential expertise in the handling of the rod, and wished to give her a chance of more practice. Roberta had always been dad's favourite, and she could never do wrong in his eyes. So he decided that he and she would take it in turn to administer the ten cuts that had been awarded to Charlie. Dad went to his bureau and took out his second cane which was just like the first one in length and weight. (Dad was very proud of his canes and took great care of them: sometimes in the evening when we were all looking at TV, dad would sit amongst us, puffing his pipe, and oiling and polishing his canes and rubbing saddle soap into the soft leather cat o' nine tails that he sometimes used for minor punishments.)

To get Charlie into a better position he was made to stand up again while a second armchair was pushed up back to back against the first chair so that the combined widths of the two upholstered backs formed a broad base on which Charlie's bare bottom could be presented equally conveniently to both dad on his right side and Roberta on his left. By now Charlie had developed an embarrassing sign of physical excitement which he had to conceal as best he could with his hands until he was bending again over the chair backs.

This physical manifestation had not escaped the notice of mum, dad and Roberta, but no comment was made. Mum and dad were mainly keen to administer a just and well-deserved punishment and did not, unlike Roberta, mind if the person punished should at the same time derive a little harmless sensual pleasure from the experience. (Quite by chance I had discovered not long ago that mum and dad often indulged in private spanking games themselves and greatly enjoyed them, but they would have been greatly peeved if they knew that I had discovered their secret. How I discovered it is another story that I might tell you sometime. Their private spanking propensity all fitted in with the pleasure they obviously took in caning us three younger children. Roberta on the other hand, never herself having been caned, had no knowledge either of the disciplinary value of the cane nor of the pleasure one could obtain from it.)

Dad, standing on Charlie's right side, delivered his first stroke on the exposed posterior — a well judged blow which served temporarily to check the rhythmic contractions flickering across the firm hillocks of Charlie's flesh. Roberta smiled, gently tapped Charlie's buttocks with the tip of the cane to get her aim, and then raised it and slashed it down as hard as she could. A surprised and pained look spread over Charlie's face, for Roberta's stroke was as hard as dad's. Charlie's sensuous feelings abruptly faded!

Dick and I had to move our positions so that we could get a better view of proceedings as dad and Roberta swung away at their work. Charlie gritted his teeth and was given a little murmured comfort from mum as he gripped her wrists. Charlie shed a few tears but did not cry out. His compact, well-rounded buttocks became a dark shade of red as the succession of well-applied strokes from dad and Roberta filled up all the space on his bottom. Pain had wholly replaced pleasure on Charlie's face by the time the tenth stroke was reached, and when he clambered off the chair backs he had no need to use his hands to conceal anything!

Charlie pulled up his pyjama trousers and we three stood in a row while dad delivered his final lecture on our wickedness in tampering with his confounded car that had got us into such trouble. Mum cleared her throat as if to add something, and then relapsed into silence. Roberta gave a superior sneer and said that if we had modelled ourselves on her we would not have got ourselves into the scrape we were now in.

We trooped off up the stairs, rather stiffly as is always the case after a caning. As soon as we were out of earshot of mum, dad and Roberta, we crowded into Charlie's room and closed the door. Up came my nightie and off came their pyjama trousers so that we could examine and compare each other's weals and look at our own in the mirror. This was always a rather exciting ritual after each punishment session. Part of the ritual also was to anoint each other with witch hazel to allay the pain and reduce the swelling. Gently massaging in the lotion was always a lovely experience both for the massager and the massaged, and we all began to get quite worked up as you can imagine. Dick and Charlie spent a quite unnecessary length of time in examining the weals on my buttocks, and when they had finished with me I had had witch hazel rubbed into all sorts of places that the cane had never been near! But I did not stop them, as I must admit that I enjoyed it as much as they did. But we dared not go on too long in case mum and dad came up and found that we had not gone to our beds. But before we separated for the night I told Charlie and Dick that I was determined to get my own back on Roberta and that I had a scheme that I wanted to carry out the next evening, Monday, for which I would need the assistance of both Charlie and Dick. They promised to do whatever I wanted, as they were as keen as I to have revenge on Roberta. We went to our own rooms. I slept on my tummy, and I expect the others did too.

Monday dawned. Our bottoms had largely returned to their usual colour, apart from a few blue weals, and we could sit without discomfort, from which you can guess that mum and dad are not sadistic users of the cane. We went about our day's activities in the garden and house (it was school hols at the time), and all the while I savoured in my mind the revenge to be inflicted on Roberta. My scheme was based on the fact that mum and dad were to be out that evening having supper with friends, while Roberta was as usual sewing her trousseau for her marriage to Trevor Taylor later in the year. Roberta presided over supper and we three did our best to chat amiably with her to avoid her suspecting that something was afoot. After we had cleared the table and watched TV for a bit, Dick and Charlie, by previous arrangement with me, said goodnight to Roberta and went upstairs. I said casually to Roberta, when we were alone, that I had something special for her in my room and I asked if she would come up so that I could give it to her. She wanted to know what it was, but I said it was a surprise and that she must come up and get it as I couldn't easily give it to her downstairs. Roberta, suspecting nothing and no doubt imagining that it was something for her wedding, followed me up to my room. Everything went as planned. Roberta entered. The two boys, hidden behind the door, leapt out, slammed the door, locked it and pocketed the key. Roberta was our prisoner!

"What is going on, Jane?" said Roberta in a rage. "How dare you!" "You'll soon find out what is going on," I said, "and if you try and get away we three are quite enough to stop you. So just sit down and listen to what I've got to say." She allowed herself to be pushed into a chair while Dick and Charlie stood guard over her.

"Roberta," I said, "for years you have made life miserable for us with your priggishness, your overbearing attitude and your bullying. The way you took advantage of last night's punishment session was the last straw. If you had had any decency you would have refused to help in the caning of me and Charlie. You are always boasting that you have always been well-behaved and that you have never been whipped. If you had been soundly caned from time to time you would have been a much nicer person than you are now. But now we three are going to make up for it by giving you a spanking that you'll remember for a long time!"

Roberta's astonishment and rage at these words were a delight to behold. "How dare you!" she spluttered, "let me go at once. When mum and dad hear about this they'll give all three of you the hidings of your young lives!" "Oh, no, they won't," I said, because they are not going to hear about it either from you or from us. For a start, please lie face down on the bed and pull your skirts above your waist."

"Jane, you must be out of your mind! I'll do no such thing," she stormed. "Oh, no?" I said, "Perhaps you'll change your mind when I tell you that one night last week I saw you and Bev Holroyd necking in the back of his car up that dark lane — it was more than just necking or deep petting, it was all the way, judging by the state of your clothing. If Trevor and his parents got to hear about it, they would break off your engagement at once. And I know that Bev would be ready to confirm that he had been necking with you as he rather fancies you and he doesn't like Trevor one little bit!"

"You bitch, Jane," said Roberta with a scared look on her face. "You wouldn't dare to tell mum and dad and Trevor about me and Bev having a fling, would you?" "Oh, yes, I would and I will too," I said, "unless you take your medicine now and change your attitude to me, Charlie and Dick. Which is it to be? Either we spill the beans about you and Bev, which will mean the end of your wedding prospects with the well-heeled Trevor, or you take a good spanking from us and that will be the end of the matter."

Roberta thought deeply and realised that she was in a cleft stick, with the prospect of a shiny and fashionable white wedding disappearing in a puff of smoke. "You must give me an hour to think about it," she said. "That won't wash," I said, "mum and dad may be back before then. It's now or never." She saw she had no escape and began to drape herself face down on my bed after pulling up her skirt round her waist. Under her skirt she wore very thin expensive-looking tights and a pair of black nylon panties as the tights alone would have been too revealing for Roberta's modesty.

"Now, Charlie," I said, "I think we'll make a slight adjustment. Arch your bottom in the air, Roberta; and Charlie, push a couple of pillows under her middle to make her target area stand up well. It's up to you, Roberta, to keep your position without moving, as we don't want to use force by having to hold your hands and feet."

You may well wonder what instrument I planned to use for the punishment. I knew I couldn't get at Dad's canes as they were locked in his bureau; and mum had only a silly little toy cane with a blue ribbon tied in a bow at the handle — just for decoration and not use — which hung on the wall above her bedhead. My scheme was to start on Roberta's bottom with my clothes brush and then to finish with my little pony riding switch which I kept in my wardrobe along with my cap and other riding clothes. You may not think that the clothes brush would be much use for effective spanking, but perhaps you've never been spanked with one — I have and I know how it can sting! Mine is of polished mahogany, about a foot long and two and a half inches wide across the flat back of the brush end, with a nicely shaped handle to give a good grip. My pony switch is not one of those cruel lashes of tempered steel wire covered with plaited binding: it is simply a thin swishy cane about eighteen inches long with a small leather-covered knob at the handle end and a double flap of soft leather bound to the tip of the business end to avoid the tip of the cane splitting and doing damage.

"Roberta," I said, "you are going to get nine whacks with my clothes brush, that is three whacks from each of us, and then we are each going to give you three strokes with my riding switch, making a total of eighteen strokes. If you try to avoid it or make any fuss we are going to increase the punishment, and if we have to do that I can assure you that you'll regret it, so be warned!" The look of rage and apprehension on Roberta's face was a sight to behold!

I started by standing on Roberta's left side and brought the back of the clothes brush down on her nylon-covered posterior as hard as I could, producing a crisp smacking noise as it landed fair and square. The length and width of the weapon was such that a large part of the whole area of her bottom was covered with the stroke. Roberta's face creased in pain and exasperation, but she uttered no sound. To increase the suspense I walked slowly round to her right side and repeated the medicine: Roberta started to open her mouth to say something and then thought better of it. I walked back to her left side and gave her my third blow, and she could not suppress a low moan.

Now it was Dick's turn. Being the youngest of us, he had been most bullied by Roberta and he relished the chance to get some of his own back. He started on Roberta's right side. Being inexperienced, his first blow was not very well aimed or effective and it had no visible effect on Roberta. This won't do, I thought, so I made Dick take a few practice whacks at the cushion on my dressing table stool and shewed him how to use wrist work to achieve maximum speed of the brush at the moment of impact. While this was going on, the changing expressions on Roberta's face revealed her growing alarm. Dick resumed on Roberta's left side and shewed by the crack with which he brought the brush down on her shapely mounds that my instruction in technique had been effective. Dick's third stroke from her right side was just as good, and by now I guessed that Roberta's bottom must be tingling very warmly, although her underclothing prevented us from seeing the precise effects.

Charlie's turn followed, and he licked his lips at the pleasant thought of getting even with Roberta for the pain she had caused him during the whipping session in the sitting room on Sunday evening. He held the brush to Roberta's nose so that she could get a foretaste of it and then, taking up his position carefully on her left side, and using a wrist action which I envied, he brought the brush down on her bottom with a crack like a pistol shot. That really brought Roberta to life, I can tell you! She rolled off the propping pillows in fury and pain, and stood up, her skirt dropping down. "I won't endure any more of this," she cried, "I'm a grown woman now and this game has gone quite far enough!" "Oh, you think it's a game, do you," I said, "but we three don't agree with you. We'll give you the choice again — either you take the rest of the punishment with no more fuss, or we spill the beans about you and Bev. You know what that will mean — no posh wedding and bridesmaids and confetti and reception and honeymoon, and no easy comfortable life with a well-off husband. Instead you'll have to take a job to earn your living, and try and find someone else silly enough to want to marry you."

This struck home. Roberta knew she was cornered, and she could not face up to the prospect of losing Trevor and all that it meant. With a sour and baffled look, she began to pull up her skirts. "That won't be enough now, after all the fuss you've been making. Take off your tights and panties. We'd like to see how effective we've been so far, and we intend to make sure that the remainder of the punishment is something that you won't forget in a hurry." "I'll do nothing of the sort," stormed Roberta, "I'm not going to have these great louts gaping at my exposure!" "That's just what we want to do" grinned Charlie, "and Jane's told you what'll happen if you refuse." She saw there was no escape and, kicking off her shoes, her hands went under her skirt to peel off her tights and black nylon panties. She then lay down again on the pillows, tucking her skirt between her legs in the vain hope that she might be allowed to keep it there for protection. I yanked her skirt tail from between her legs and pulled it up over her shoulders. We gathered round her very handsome bottom to see the effects of our efforts so far.

Looked at from any angle, Roberta's posterior is a delight to behold. From the side it sweeps up in a steep gradient from the small of her back through a perfect curve over the crest of her buttocks and then down to the delicious folds marking the beginning of her thighs. Viewed from above the shape is that of a perfectly symmetrical pack-of-cards heart. Seen from her feet as she lay on the bed, it looked like the twin domes of an oriental mosque. But the sight that really held our attention was the blush of rosy pink that suffused the whole of her buttocks wherever the mahogany of the clothes brush had kissed her sensuous flesh. Only the inner recesses of the charming cleft that divided her bottom had escaped. I put my cheek near her skin and could sense the glow of warmth that arose from it.

"Now, Charlie," I said, "finish off your spell with the brush to complete the first stage." Charlie this time stood on Roberta's right side, and his second stroke was as effective as his first had been. The brush back cracked crisply on her bare flesh, the pink changed to a darker hue of red, and Roberta writhed. She writhed even more after Charlie's third, delivered from her left side. She knew better than to try and struggle or escape, but gritted her teeth and clenched her fists until the knuckles whitened.

For the riding switch we decided to alter the batting order, Dick to go first, then Charlie, and last it would be me for the grand finale — a pleasure that I anticipated with no little pleasure. As Dick was inexperienced, I put the dressing stool cushion down beside Roberta's face so that she could see it while Dick made several practice shots with the switch until he could be sure of getting the target every time. Roberta's expression while this was going on was a study!

Dick's first stroke with the switch, although delivered with enthusiasm, wasn't very good either as regards accuracy or strength, for the cane slanted across the mound of her right buttock and then down across the upper part of her left thigh. But it was enough to draw a squeal from Roberta and to imprint a thin red stripe across the area already pinked by the brush and to make a pleasing pink mark on the white of her thigh. We could see the muscles of her posterior flicker under the flushed skin as she tensed herself for the next stroke which Dick gave her from the left side. This was a much better effort: the cane whistled through the air and with a crisp crack a neat line appeared across the top of each buttock. Dick was now warming to his congenial task, and his third and final stroke, delivered from Roberta's right side, landed exactly on the line of the second stroke. Roberta squealed again, her hips lifted from the pillows, and her hands instinctively began to move from above her head as if to protect the area we were assaulting so vigorously.

"Keep your hands away, Roberta," Charlie cried, "or we'll double the whipping!" This was enough to make her snatch her hands back and grip the rails of the bed head to steady herself for the rest of her ordeal.

Charlie could hardly wait to take the switch from Dick. He swished it menacingly over Roberta's head to give her a taste of what was coming. Then taking up his position on her left side he landed a sizzler dead straight and exactly parallel to the line left by Dick's second and third strokes. Roberta didn't like this at all, and her squeak of rage and pain was quite comical. I'm afraid that Charlie, Dick and I just giggled, for we were thoroughly enjoying Roberta's discomfiture. Charlie's next stroke with the switch made another neat red line half an inch from the first; and his final blow, delivered from her left side, was a masterpiece. Instead of bringing the switch vertically down on her, he sliced sideways so that the weapon landed on the lower part of the curves of her buttocks just above the folds where the buttocks join the tops of the thighs. This was virgin territory that had escaped the attention of the brush back.

She began to move as if to get off the bed. "I warn you, Roberta," I said, "if you don't take the rest of the punishment from us you'll lose your precious Trevor. So keep quite still for the last three strokes which I'm going to give you. And just to show that you accept them voluntarily and meekly you can jolly well kiss the switch before I finish roasting your pretty pink bottom with it." Roberta angrily raised her head and kissed the rod, and then submitted herself to the final stage. I fingered Roberta's bottom and planned where my three strokes were to be placed. My first, from her right side, landed exactly between Dick's second and third strokes and Charlie's first. I then walked round, and gave my second stroke as hard as I could to land between Charlie's first and second. It was a real sizzler and must have stung her like anything. I stayed on her left side for my final stroke for I intended to land it between Charlie's second and third strokes. His third stroke, you will remember, was on the lower curve of her buttocks just above the fold where the thigh begins so I had to be very careful and accurate. As in Charlie's case, it meant bringing the switch sideways rather than downwards, so I placed the switch against her flesh on the chosen line in order to get my aim. As the switch gently touched her skin she shuddered and looked round to see what I was doing. What she saw did not reassure her. In readiness for the final stroke she tensed her buttocks and I could see her cleft close into a thin line.

I held the switch at full length with my arm straight and my eye firmly on the ribbon of pale skin sandwiched between the pink stripes on the lower curve. My arm swept out to my right, and when it reached its full extension I bent my wrist so that the switch was pointing backwards. Then I drove my arm forwards with all the power at my command (I play a lot of tennis and my forehand drive is pretty useful, though I say it myself) and as it approached the target area my wrist came into play and the switch landed with a crack like a rifle shot exactly on the chosen line. It was a good stroke, and one which mum and dad would have applauded if they had known anything about what was going on. A dark red line shewed itself at once and Roberta shot in the air with a howl and landed half on the bed and half on the floor, clutching her hands to her injured posterior, and with tears in her eyes.

"Let that be a lesson to you, Roberta," I said. "We've had our revenge. I'm sure that Charlie and Dick enjoyed it as much as I did." They nodded vigorous assent at this. "And remember that in future we expect your attitude to us to be very different from what it has been in the past. Do you promise to be nicer to us?" Roberta stammered a promise, but there was more than a trace of hostility in her look, which is perhaps hardly surprising in view of the cavalier treatment she had just had at our hands! "If you don't mend your ways," said Charlie, "we can still give you another whipping and you can't refuse to take it because we can still tell on you about you and Bev Holroyd, and you wouldn't like that, would you?" "Oh, very well, I'll do my best to be nicer to you," she said angrily, "though it's beyond me why I should be nice to you horrid creatures after what you've just done to me. What would Trevor say if he could see my bottom now?" "That's very interesting, Roberta," I said, "so you let Trevor see your naked bottom, do you — though perhaps it's hardly surprising as you let Bev enjoy the same privilege! I think it would be a very good thing if Trevor could see it now, and he would then know how to deal with you after you are married!" Roberta tossed her head angrily and said nothing.

Turning to Charlie and Dick I said "Be off, you two! You've had your fun, and I'm not going to have you playing the amateur masseur on your eldest sister's person. That's a job for me." The boys departed reluctantly and closed the door. I made Roberta lie again on her tummy on the bed with her skirt once more raised above her waist. The pink caused by the clothes brush was already beginning to fade, but the strokes of the riding switch shewed as a series of neat raised ridges, really quite decorative in their own way, although Roberta would not have appreciated it. I stroked her gently and kissed the weals. With my lips I could feel a glow of warmth radiating from her charming bottom. Then I administered some witch hazel which took away the string and after that slowly rubbed in cold cream. Already the pinkness and weals were disappearing. It was a sensuous experience which I was unashamedly enjoying, and I saw by the changing and softening expression on Roberta's side-turned face that she too gained pleasure from what I was doing. Her buttocks began to move in rhythm with my massaging fingers, and when I paused for a moment she made an impatient movement for me to resume my attentions. I made a mental note to try and find an opportunity to tell Trevor that he should have Roberta eating out of his hand if he gave her a good whipping whenever she needed it, but that he must follow up the chastisement with cold cream and hot love!

It was now getting late. Mum and dad would be back soon, and Roberta would have to be downstairs to greet them, so I helped her on with her panties and tights and kissed her good night as she left the room. As soon as the sound of her steps on the stairs had died away my door opened again and in came Charlie and Dick, grinning from ear to ear. "Jane," said Charlie, "why on earth did you pet and pamper Roberta like that after the punishment we had just given her?" I gaped in surprise. "How ever do you know what I was doing to Roberta after you two had gone?" I asked. "Oh, we did the usual thing," said Dick, "we stood on chairs in the corridor and looked through the fanlight above the door. We often watch you when you are undressing. It was great fun when you kissed her bottom and we saw how excited she got when you massaged her. I bet Trevor would have enjoyed watching!" Charlie said "Next time we get a beating from mum and dad, Dick and I will kiss your bottom for you and then we'll see if you start wriggling like Roberta when we rub in the witch hazel and cold cream and massage you. I bet you'll like that!"

"How dare you, you cheeky monkeys," I cried. "If I catch you at it, you'll be sorry — I'll get mum and dad to give you such a beating that you won't be able to sit down for a week."

Later, when I was tucked up snug in bed, I thought back with pleasure on the whipping we had given Roberta and wondered if there would ever be an opportunity to repeat it. I had certainly had my revenge on her, but in addition I had discovered new and very real pleasures in corporal punishment and so too, I think, had Roberta. My guess is that, soon after she and Trevor are married, she will begin to look for reasons for him to take a cane to her behind. After only one experience Roberta is well on the way to becoming an addict!

A peach too many

Story from London Life Vol.1 No.4

A peach too many

Christina selected a peach from the basket and bit rapturously into the succulent flesh. She finished the fruit, licking the sweet juice from her lips, and put the nut into a used envelope. She took another peach and stood for a few moments enhancing the pleasure, while she stared idly through the window watching the children playing in Elmfield Way. Suddenly she stiffened. A battered Ford van slowed and halted opposite the door of number nine. The words FRANK ATKINS, MARKET GARDENER were painted on the sides.

The girl acted quickly. She screwed up the envelope and dropped it into her small waste-paper-bin; then taking two peaches from the basket, she put them, with the one she held, carefully into a sheet of clean paper, which she folded and pushed on to one of her book-shelves. The doorbell rang. Very quietly she carried the basket into her young brother's bedroom and hid it behind a suitcase under his bed. She thought it unlikely that the fruit would be found, but if it was Bobby would be blamed, for he wasn't above scrumping apples. As she crept back into her own bedroom she heard Mr. Atkin's angry west country voice downstairs. When her mother entered her room she was sitting at her small table engrossed in a study of Fowler's Modern English Usage. "Hallo, mum," she said innocently, "who's that shouting the odds downstairs?"

Mrs. Graves face was lined and wan. "You'll be the death of me, Christina! Where are they?"

"Where's what, mum?"

"You know very well, you bad girl! The peaches you stole. Where are they?"

The girl faced her mother with an aggrieved expression. "I didn't steal. I only picked a couple. Well, three. Oh, well, I'm sorry." She took the paper from the bookcase. "Here, the old skinflint can have them back. Tell him I'm sorry and I won't take any more."

Her mother frowned with a helpless expression. "Mr. Atkins says.... Chrissie, you're not being fair. He isn't a skin-flint. This is his living. Where are the rest? How many have you eaten? I want the truth, now."

"That's all. I told you I only picked three, and I haven't eaten any. That isn't stealing!"

The woman hesitated, biting her lip as she stared sadly at her self-satisfied, over-indulged, over-fed, daughter. She had spoiled the child. Was she lying? Christina did tell lies and this was not the first time she'd stolen fruit. "Oh, Chrissie! Of course it is! What am I going to do with you? You'd better come down."

Confronted by the market gardener, Christina was brazen and confident. "I'm sorry, Mr. Atkins, honestly. I only picked three. Look, you can have them back."

"Now you look, young miss! It just ban't good 'nough. Three peaches? A good four pound, ee picked, an' I can't afford to 'ave my fruit stole."

"Calling me a liar, Mr. Atkins?"

"I ban't calling ee nothing. But I knaw 'ow much ee tuk. My own kids ban't 'aving other people's doing it. This've been going on for years. I've warned ee more'n once, miss. This time it's the police."

"No!" cried Mrs. Graves in distress. "Oh, my God! Mr. Atkins, please! Leave Christina to me. I promise you it'll never happen again."

The man grunted. "I don' want to make things bad for you, Mrs. Graves. But this be my bread an' butter, an' I want something done about it. She'm your girl, ma'am, but... well 'er's got to be made to see sense!"

"I'm very, very sorry, Mr. Atkins," Christina said, demurely contrite, "I understand now. I know it was very naughty of me and I'll never do it again, I promise faithfully. You won't go to the police will you? Now I must go and get on with my homework, I'm behind with it." She thought complacently about the basket of luscious peaches. The man wouldn't carry out his threat, she was sure. How could he prove how many she had picked. And she knew she could handle her mother. Turning, she walked slowly up the stairs, emphasizing the movement of her buxom behind.

"Please, Mr. Atkins, there's no need for the police. It'll never happen again. I'll make her mind."

"How?" he asked sceptically. "I've 'ad trouble wi' that girl o' yours for years. Ee knaws that as well as I do, ma'am. I ban't no trouble-maker, but I must be sure 'er'll be punished."

"Punished! Oh, but... she's seventeen, Mr. Atkins. Nigh on eighteen. And she promised faithfully. I'll give her a good talking to."

"That just ban't gud 'nough. I knaws what kids needs. 'Ab'n I brought up four o' me own? Listen, Mrs. Graves. You knaws my Pansy, don' ee? Last yur 'er tuk some o' my best purple grapes. 'Er knawed it were strictly forbidden. Do ee knaw what I did, ma'am?" The woman shook her head helplessly. "I told 'er mum to take she to 'er bedroom an' see 'er got ready for bed. Then I went up wi' my strap. I keeps a leather belt for my youngsters, a thick, 'eavy'n. Poor maid were frightened sick, t'weren't the first time I'd leathered 'er bu... bottom. I made Pansy drop 'er pyjama trousers an' lie across 'er bed, an' I laid on fifteen real good wallops across 'er bare backside. Sorry, ma'am"... seeing the woman's cheeks flush pinkly... "I'm a blunt man. An' mark me, that were dree months after Pansy's eighteenth birthday."

"Oh, my goodness!"

"Ah! 'er cried 'er eyes out an' cudn't 'ardly move." He paused. "Luk, Mrs. Graves. I knaws it ban't for me to tell folks 'ow to bring their children up. But, wi' respect, ma'am, I do think your girl ought to be corrected. An' if you can't do it..."

"Oh dear! All right, Mr. Atkins, I – I'll – well, I will give Christina a good hiding. With a slipper. I haven't a strap."

Mrs. Graves went upstairs again. Standing with eyes meekly lowered, Christina apologised for worrying her mother.

"You don't care how much you worry me! You never did. You're a spoiled, selfish girl! And you eat too much – look at you!" Christina blinked and stared uneasily at the pronounced roundness of her form. It was true, she was fat; she hadn't much waist. "Anyway, I've promised Mr. Atkins I'll punish you."

Christina grinned. "How – no jam for tea?"

"Don't scoff, Christina. I am very angry. I said... well, I told him I'd... well, smack you with a slipper on your bottom. Er..." she gulped. "Bare."

"You what? Oh, mum, don't be ridiculous. I'm not a kid." She laughed. "Spank me with a slipper? At seventeen? That's daft – bare or otherwise!"

"You'll have to let me, Chrissie. I promised."

DAUGHTER: "Well I won't. Anyway, what a silly fuss over three bloody peaches!" MOTHER: "Don't use that language, child. That's all you took?" "Yes. Just three. Honestly." "You swear that? On your honour, Chrissie?" "I swear mummy. On my honour. He's got them back and I'll never do it again."

Poor Mrs. Graves. She was inept, and she knew it. She was only too glad to accept that assurance. She couldn't chastise her grown-up daughter. She never had given the girl a hiding; she'd known she could not keep that promise when she had made it. She loved Chrissie dearly, she didn't want to hurt her. She couldn't anyway, unless Chrissie submitted voluntarily. As for the idea of Mr. Atkins strapping his eighteen year old daughter's uncovered bottom... That was absolutely shocking! After all, she thought, such a fuss over three peaches. She looked at the small table, with text books, reference books, fountain pen, ruled foolscap paper covered with neat handwriting. She was proud of her clever child. Chrissie had made a solemn promise. She was a good girl, really.

Despite the solemn promise, when the girl went out after tea her mother decided to search her room as a salve to her own conscience. Christina anticipated that, but she was unworried. The fruit was safe and the flap was over. Mum had persuaded Mr. Atkins and she had persuaded mum. Spank her bare arse? Mummy must be getting senile!

The spoiled young lady would have felt less complacent had she seen the Ford van turn into the drive of a detached house called The Larches. It was the home of Mrs. Bentley, the large, formidable Deputy Principal of the Comprehensive.

"I be right sorry to bother ee 'bout this, Mrs. Bentley, ma'am. But I'm fair sick of it an' that's a fact. That Mrs. Graves swore 'er'd deal wi' the thieving young madam, an' it'd never 'appen again. But us've 'ad it all before. Nothing'll be done. You must know Christina Graves ma'am." Mrs. Bentley certainly did. The girl was weak-charactered; deceiptful, and had been suspected of pilfering from the school sports fund. "I do sympathise, Mr. Atkins, I will see Christina and give her a severe telling-off."

"Well, ma'am, what I wondered... After all, it's well known as you'm strict at school. I did think maybe a good dose of the cane..."

The Deputy Principal smiled faintly. "I daresay I could. But punishing a senior girl is a serious matter. I would need the headmaster's approval. And – with respect Mr. Atkins, I'm not doubting your word for one moment – there's no proof."

"Well, I knaw 'er took 'bout four pounds but I can't prove that. But there's proof 'er took three peaches – an' it's still stealing."

"True, and Mr. Norman regards stealing as a very serious offence. But as for corporal punishment – well, you know how things are these days. Some people in the county education department are against it. The maximum I am permitted to give a girl is two strokes on each hand. And that only with Mr. Norman's approval. A big, lusty girl getting on for eighteen – she'd laught at it! And girls must not be caned on the seat. More's the pity." And that was all, the man asked? She shrugged. "What else? Mr. Norman considers that suspension is wrong. So do I. There's enough truancy, without locking youngsters out of school! And obviously there could be no question of expulsion. School discipline is difficult these days."

"That's that then, I'm going to the coppers. I know damn' well that mother of 'ers won't do nothing, an' I ban't 'ab'n no more of it!"

"Oh, dear! There'd be such a scandal. Poor Mrs. Graves! And there's the school... Please leave this with me, Mr. Atkins. I am well aware that Mrs. Graves is pretty hopeless, but I'll go and see her. I may be able to persuade her to deal with the girl."

"Deal with 'er?" The man laughed sceptically. "Naughty girl an' don't ee do it again! Well, I'd be glad enough to leave'n in your 'ands for the moment, Mrs. Bentley. But that girl should be severely punished. An' I'd want proof."

Mrs. Graves made a thorough search of Christina's room. There was no more fruit. But she did find something that gave her a very bad shock. She was suddenly violently angry; she found herself actually wishing she could give her deceiptful child a good hiding. Such thoughts upset her, but there was no getting away from it – Christina had flagrantly lied to her. The girl was a thief and untruthful, and she thoroughly deserved a good thrashing. Mrs. Graves was in that frame of mind when Mrs. Bentley rang the door-bell.

Christina let herself into No. nine. Hearing a mutter of voices, she decided to go to her room. Half way up the stairs, she was stopped by her mother's voice, and it sounded oddly confident. "Oh, Chrissie. Come into the sitting-room, please."

The daughter felt a vague feeling of disquiet. She sensed a difference in her mother's manner – could she have taken it into her head to look in Bobby's bedroom? "Oh, mum, I'm tired. I wanted an early night."

"I think you'd better come down. This may be rather a late night for you, my girl."

Christina was suddenly very perturbed. Her mother looked worried, as she always did, hut her tone and attitude were different; she seemed more confident, more decisive. Well, what if she had found the fruit? Bobby had pinched it.

"All right, mum, I'll just slip into the loo, first." Emerging from the toilet, she crept into her brother's room. Bobby was at the youth club. To her intense relief the basket had been undisturbed. She went downstairs, entered the sitting-room – and stopped dead, filled with alarm and dismay. She was furious with her mother. What a dirty, lousy trick! "G-good evening, Mrs. Bentley. Did-did you want to see me? I'd have stayed in if I'd known."

Mrs. Graves experienced an overwhelming feeling of relief. She knew that her spoiled, wayward child was in capable hands. She loved her daughter and hated the thought that she had to suffer. But there was no help for it. Something had to be done.

"I think you know why I'm here, Christina."

"Those bloody peaches!"

"Don't you dare talk to me like that, girl!"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean..." She turned furiously upon her mother. "Going running to Mrs. Bentley! What a thing to do! All this fuss over three peaches."

"Three, Christina?"

"I gave you my word, didn't I? I swore. On my honour. Maybe you'd like me to swear again, on the bible!" Her mother pointed silently to the table. A crumpled envelope with one sticky peach stone lay there. Christina's heart seemed momentarily to stop; the breath had been knocked out of her. That was something she had completely overlooked. For a minute she stared at the accusing bit. She looked at her mother, then at the school-mistress. She stammered: "Well, so what? It's only one."

Her mother nodded. "One too many, isn't it, Christina?"

The girl bit her lip.

"And what about your honour?"

"Well, I'm sorry, mum. I did take four peaches. I – I said three because I thought, well, I thought it'd look better if Mr. Atkins thought I hadn't eaten any." She looked appealingly at Mrs. Bentley. "After all, ma'am – well, one peach different..."

"Do you expect us to believe you?"

Christina's face turned a deep burning red. "N-no, ma'am," she whispered.

"Mr. Atkins was undoubtedly right when he insisted you'd had four pounds of fruit." She looked compassionately at the mother. Mrs. Graves' lined face was pitifully worried and distressed. "Your mother did not come to me, Christina. Mr. Atkins complained to me because he was reluctant to go to the police. This sort of thing has been going on for years. He has been a long-suffering man, but this time something is going to be done."

The girl pulled herself together. There was nothing very serious to fear. She supposed she would be caned in the morning. She hated the stick, but four whacks on the hands were nothing to worry about. She'd had that more than once from Mrs. Bentley and she knew it was the maximum punishment permitted. Thank goodness she didn't go to St. Margaret's, a local private school to which her mother had once wanted to send her. Sarah, a girl she knew who was a pupil there had once received six on the seat of her knickers. She'd said it had been agonizing. That sort of beating seemed barbarous to Christina; she was heartily thankful it was not allowed at the Comprehensive.

"Mrs. Bentley," she said humbly, "I know I've caused a lot of trouble, and I'm very sorry. It's simply that – well, I didn't think of it as stealing. After all, a lot of young kids do a bit of scrumping."

"You know perfectly well this is different from taking a few apples. Systematic pilfering of expensive fruit from a professional grower is a very serious offence, my child."

"I am sorry, ma'am. Honestly. But it's finished. I promised mum faithfully I'd never do it again."

Mrs. Bentley shook her head, grim-mouthed. "You've said it all before, girl, and you've been allowed to get away with it for far too long. Now you really are in trouble."

"Where is the rest of the fruit, Christina?" her mother asked. "It's no use trying to lie any more."

Christina hung her head. "It's under Bobby's bed, mum."

"So if I'd found it you'd have let me blame him!" Blushing crimson, the girl tried to deny any such intention, but she could not get the words out; her guilt was clear. "Oh, my God! You little bitch! You'd be willing to get your own brother into trouble!" The girl quailed, her mother had never been so angry. Her face was red, and her eyes, usually a weary blue, were shooting blue sparks. "You thieving, lying, cowardly little wretch!"

"Oh, mummy...!" Christina was aghast.

"It's true. Mrs. Bentley has told me that every teacher in the school knows what a damn' little liar you are! And you would put the blame on your own brother! You richly deserve what you are going to get from Mrs. Bentley. Deceiptful hussey! I am ashamed to think you are my daughter!"

Mrs. Graves dropped into an armchair. She knew she was weak. She's pampered her daughter, spoiled her, threatened and done nothing. Now, at last, Christina had to pay the penalty. So did she – having to watch the chastisement would be torment enough for her. "Oh, Chrissie, Chrissie! You're a bad girl! Mrs. Bentley should give you the cane more at school." Finding that discarded peach stone had hit the unfortunate woman badly, had brought home to her just what a brazen liar the girl was; the added knowledge that Christina had been prepared to make Bobby the scapegoat – which was possible, because he was no angel! – was like a knife inside her. Had it not been for those two facts, she would never have dreamed of permitting the pain, humiliation and embarrassment, that her daughter had to suffer, and which she had to witness.

The culprit was worried and apprehensive. She feared a caning, Mrs. Bentley was a hefty woman and she would use her strength. Yet – two on each hand. That was nothing. Four on the same hand would be worse, but that was not permitted. For a young woman getting on for eighteen, almost certainly destined for university, it would be more humiliating than painful.

"Now, young lady, listen to me." Mrs. Bentley's face was bleak, her voice grim. "You have caused your poor mother a great deal of worry. She has agreed – reluctantly, she is very unhappy about it – that I may deal with you. If you continue as you are, you will find yourself in the magistrates' court and probably a special school." That threat produced an unpleasant twinge in the girl's belly. "Your mother hopes, as I do very sincerely, that severe punishment now may help to change your ways before it is too late."

Christina decided to play the remorseful penitent. Standing with bowed head and hands clasped demurely before her, she said: "Yes, ma'am, I hope you will cane me very hard at school in the morning. I deserve it." Mrs. Graves marvelled. Never had she seen her delinquent child so meek!

"You may be assured of that, my girl. I intend to cane you very severely indeed. But it will not be at school tomorrow. It will be at my home. This evening."

The girl's head jerked up in alarm. '''Y-your home, ma'am?"

"Yes, Christina. You and your mother are coming with me now, in my car. I intend to administer a very severe whipping."

"Wh-whipping, ma'am?" Christina's heart was thudding, her voice weak.

"A thorough thrashing on your bare seat, with a cane. I have borrowed one from school."

The girl gaped for a moment in almost dazed consternation. Then she burst out: "No! You-you can't! You're not allowed to, you know you're not! And I won't bloody take it, anyway! Oh, gosh!" She shrank before the mistress's blazing eyes. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I shouldn't have said that. I – I don't mean to be disrespectful. But I thought..."

"I know what you thought. And you're wrong. This will not be school discipline. I am going to thrash you at the request of your mother. You do, of course, have the right to refuse."

GIRL: "How – how many strokes, Ma'am?" MISTRESS: "Fifteen, Christina." "Fifteen! On my-my bare bottom?" "Yes." "Oh, God, no! I do refuse, ma'am."

"Then Mr. Atkins will go to the police. And whatever the magistrates do with you, it will mean expulsion from the school. You know how strongly Mr. Norman feels about the school's reputation."

"But that – that would ruin my career! My whole life!" Her voice was unsteady and a little hoarse.

"A university place is a certainty for you, Christina. But not if you are expelled from school..." The woman paused, grim-faced. "No schoolteacher wants to ruin the career of a very promising student."

The Deputy Principal was bluffing; no sixth-former destined for university would be expelled for the sake of a few peaches. And she was very unsure about her right to inflict a Draconian flogging – she knew what the views of certain members of the education committee would be. The girl sank into a chair, put her face into her hands, and wept. Then she appealed to her mother. How could her mother do such a thing to her. Did her mother want to see her whole life ruined because of a bit of bloody fruit? And she'd die if she were beaten like that. "You've brought it on yourself, you wicked girl!" Mrs. Graves burst into tears.

It is questionable whether a convicted felon riding in a cart from Newgate to Tyburn felt worse than did Christina during her short car ride. Her thoughts were a feverish jumble. She was terror-stricken. She felt a little sick. She was convinced that any punishment on the bottom must be sheer agony. But – fifteen!

Fifteen awful wallops on her bare skin...! Sarah hadn't had more than six, over her knickers, and that had been awful. The distressed girl had always accepted the fact that she was a coward, terrified of pain; and she had ever been complacent when committing some misdeed because of the knowledge that her mother would not beat her and she could not get much at school. Now that complacency had been brutally kicked from under her – as though she had a rope around her neck and the trap had been sprung. She couldn't believe it. On her bare behind! Oh, God, no! It simply could not happen to her. And inflicted by the powerful Deputy Principal... And it was an additional wrench to find that she was not even permitted to keep the basket of peaches; she considered she had a right to that. Before returning to The Larches, Mrs. Bentley drove to the market garden and Mrs. Graves took the fruit to the house. It almost broke Christina's heart; a terrible caning, which probably would kill her – and no gorgeous peaches!...

The teacher showed mother and daughter into a large bedroom. She tossed a cane, which she had brought from the car, on to the bed. Then she went to make a telephone call. Mrs. Graves picked up the implement of correction and fingered it. "Well, this is it, Chrissie," she said sadly, "I haven't seen one of these for more than twenty-five years."

The recipient of it felt as though she had a big lump of hard suet pudding in her stomach. "Oh, God! Mummy, I'm scared! This – this is medieval!"

It was a long, slim rattan with a curved handle. The usual school implement, to which Christina was not a complete stranger. She looked at its mute menace, the thick, stubby end, the joints upon its rusty-yellow surface; dread lay like a weight on her tummy. Why, oh, why, had she been such a little fool? That bloody peach! Just one! One discarded nut...! And she was supposed to be a clever girl.

"Bend forward a little, Chrissie." The girl looked at her mother in surprise. "Er-mummy?" Suddenly hopeful – "Are you going to give it to me?"

"No, dear. I'm just – curious. Bend forward, just a little." Looking at her mother holding the cane, Christina felt a sudden surge of affection and it seemed to be part of an odd little sensation near her navel. She obeyed diffidently, feeling foolish and embarrassed – yet in a queer sort of way she rather liked it. Impulsively, she bent right over, so that her taut skirt provocatively outlined her protruding hindquarters. She did not know why, except that it was somehow part of the sudden feeling of love and remorse she felt towards her mother, and a little tingle of excitement at the idea of bending over for her mother to cane her backside. But of course that was merely because mummy was only pretending... She felt a tap against her well-curved rear, then a sharp little rap, not hard enough to sting; but she was distinctly aware of a funny feeling of pleasure in her nether area. "Perhaps I should have given you this on your bottom years ago. Stand up, darling."

Christina straightened herself. "Mummy, would you give it to me?" – "I can't Chrissie."

"Why? You could give me the same – fifteen on my bare bottom. I'd rather have it from you." As she spoke a very odd thought came to her, a very strange thought indeed; it seemed to come from nowhere, cast up from the unplumbed depths of her mind. It was a conviction that some time she must persuade her mother to beat her on her behind, for no other reason than that she wanted it. It was a stupid, infantile, notion! And that afternoon she had contemptuously refused a spanking.

Mrs. Graves shook her head, and threw the cane on to the bed. "I couldn't, child. I just couldn't. It has to be very severe."

"Oh, mummy!" The girl could hardly speak. "I'm so frightened!"

MOTHER: "My poor little girl! Oh, why did you have to do it?"

DAUGHTER: "A few peaches!"

"It isn't just that. It's your lies. You swore, Christina! It was a shameless deceit. And to do such a thing to Bobbie!" "I didn't do anything to him. No-one need have known anything about it." "If they'd been found in his room..."

Christina suddenly read something of the hurt in those faded blue eyes, which were a little tearful, and for the first time the realisation that her mother was suffering too, penetrated her self-centred, self-pitying awareness. "Oh, mummy, I'm sorry. Do you hate me?"

"Hate you, Christina? Oh, my darling! You know how much I love you. I'd give anything in the world if you didn't have to be caned."

"But, mummy, I don't. Tell Mrs. Bentley you've changed your mind."

"I haven't changed my mind, Chrissie. I see now how wrong I've been all these years. I have always known how deceiptful you were! I could never bring myself even to smack your bottom. My poor girl, I'm sorry, but you must be punished. In a way you will never forget!"

"It's wrong," moaned Christina, "it's brutal. Oh, mummy, let's go home. You can beat me. With the slipper. Or – or a stick from the garden. As hard as you like. With nothing on."

Like many weak-charactered people, Mrs. Graves had been shocked into surprising obstinacy. "No, my girl. No! My mind is made up. You must be very severely whipped. You begged for it – now stop whining and take it! My God, how do you think I feel?"

"I'm sorry. I'm not very brave." The girl felt utterly miserable. She knew her punishment was just, but it seemed dreadfully harsh. It would have been better had her mother spanked her years ago. Perhaps corporal punishment should be more severe at school. Half to herself, she muttered: "It's so humiliating. I'm an adult. My behind... all bare. I'll be sick with shame!"

The distressed parent suffered another sharp pang. There was to be even more humiliating indignity and shame which her poor child knew nothing of.

Mrs. Bentley entered the room, carry a thick foam-filled cushion taken from an easy chair. She placed it upon a low table, which she pulled into the middle of the room. She sent Christina to the toilet, then spoke to Mrs. Graves. "I'm afraid this is going to be very distressing for you, my dear." The anxious mother, sitting in a wickered armchair, was still a shade lachrymose. "I must warn you – Christina will probably cry very loudly. She may even scream. You must be prepared for that. But on no account, no matter how much noise, you mustn't interfere. Promise, Mrs. Graves?"

"It – it won't harm her? I mean – the shock, perhaps?"

"She is a strong, healthy girl. I've caned girls very severely in the past. They get over it, and the weals heal."

The mother had many doubts, she was sick with worry and anxiety; but her daughter's deceipt had hit her too badly. The girl had to be punished. And it was her duty to be present. She would steel herself to Christina's suffering, much as she dreaded it. She believed – she hoped – that the sharp shock of severe discipline now would be sufficient to shake the girl off the course she had been taking; might perhaps save her from a life of sordid dishonesty and unhappinness. Mrs. Bentley, too, was not entirely happy. Dubious about the legal position, as well as the professional ethics involved, she saw the mother's presence as a wise precaution. She was convinced that what she had to do was her moral duty, but anticipation afforded no sadistic pleasure.

Picking up the instrument of justice, the mistress flexed it between her big hands, curving it almost into a loop. She saw that the culprit's unhappy eyes were following every ominous movement, her face was pallid and looked drawn. Mrs. Bentley was genuinely sorry for the girl, as she was for the unhappy mother. She felt, indeed, that there was poetic justices in Mrs. Graves' having to witness the anguished squirms of her beloved offspring, to her agonized cries under the flailing rod; that perhaps it was not an unfair penalty for those years of lack of maternal commonsense and proper guidance.

"You understand why I am doing this, Christina?" – "Yes, ma'am."

"Tell me." She wanted it firmly fixed in the offender's mind.

"For – for stealing fruit, ma'am." Poor Christina was inwardly squirming under the humiliating ignominy of having to go through this in front of her mother. "And and..."

"Yes, child?"

Child! Just a naughty child! She, very nearly an undergraduate, "For lying when I said I only picked three peaches. And..." She gulped. It had to be said. "I'd have let my brother take the blame if I could."

"Yes. That was cowardly, wasn't it? Contemptible!" – "Yes, ma'am."

"You will never forget this thrashing, and you will never forget the reasons. Now undress." The girl took off her light summer jacket, removed her shoes, pulled down tights and briefs and stepped out of them. Then she looked hesitantly at the mistress. "Strip. Everything except your brassiere." With abashed head lowered, Christina obeyed. Her face was not pale now; she could feel the burning colour that suffused her cheeks. She could still hardly believe it, it was like a nightmare. She was actually stripping, for a flogging! She felt very bad inside herself, but she was honest enough to blame nobody but Christina – and a malevolent fate. She was a liar, thief, coward. She deserved a bloody good walloping! she thought bitterly. Christ, she'd be glad to get it over! With her back turned to the two women she took off her dress; finally, slowly and reluctantly, her waist slip. She stood with abject head bowed, tormented by abasement and shame. There could be no modesty for a young lady that had to be flogged.

Mrs. Graves, watching the gradual unveiling of her daughter, was disturbed by her unsightly corpulence, and again had to accuse herself of neglect. She had not seen Christina in the nude for a long time, probably five years, and had taken for granted the fact that she was putting on flesh. She had let herself be cajoled into giving her excessive pocket money. The child stuffed herself with sweets, ice-creams, chocolates and crisps; when she remonstrated she was ignored and she let it slide. Christina, too, was very conscious of her fat. Rounded fatty breasts; thick waist; belly rather too well curved; large soft buttocks, the flesh flaccid like a baby's; good straight legs, but fat thighs and calves.

''Right. Across that cushion! No, right across it," as the delinquent bent over it. Pulling herself up, she lay with her tummy pressed into the cushion, head and shoulders hanging on one side, toes just touching the floor. Anticipating tearful pleading and objection, Mrs. Bentley was relieved that the girl was not making difficulties. Mrs. Graves was also thankful that her unfortunate child was behaving so docilely. She was amazed by Christina's submissiveness and obedience, and she was impressed by the potency of a supple cane in the hands of an authoritative person – it was a bitter object lesson in the handling of recalcitrant kids!

Christina could have cried with the bitterness of her outraged pudency, and was fervently wishing that her mother was not there to see her humiliation and degradation. In that ignominious position she seemed to be all arse! She had sometimes enjoyed a giggle with other girls about "titties", and "bums", but never in her life had she been so woefully aware of her own posterior. Her fear and misery were intensified when her mistress grasped her arms and tied a pair of nylon tights around her wrists. They were soft and her wrists were not bound tightly together, but the consciousness of her helplessness made her feel something like despair.

So taut was she with nervous apprehension that she nearly screamed when she felt a cold, hard touch across her buttocks. Oh, God, help me bear it! The stick was lifted, there was a pause of a second or two, during which the suspense seemed unendurable – a sudden loud swishing sound, the sibilant menacing music of the rod – a blow across the crown of her upturned rear, which she scarcely felt... Then, with devastating suddenness, a feeling that she had never experienced and different to that which she had expected: a very peculiar sensation, a sting of razor-sharpness, like a thin hot wire cutting through skin and tissue to the very centre of her being, the shock of which snatched at her breath so that, for seconds, she could neither laugh nor cry, and she wanted to do both.

The punisher too was aware of an unusual feeling; a tingling sensation that seemed to be physical but which was not, something that seemed to be pleasurable but which afforded her no pleasure. She understood it, she was on the verge of sexua! titillation.

Thinking about it later, she realised that there had been a degree of perverted pleasure, especially as the convulsive jerking of the girl's limbs had offered glimpses of a small round, puckered rosette, and part of pink intimate lips with tufts of brown curly hair. It was evident that such chastisement could well induce some sensual thrill, and she thought it could be unhealthy to indulge too much.

She knew that fifteen strokes of a willowy rattan across the young girl's naked, very tender, nates were going to be intensely painful. She had to be harsh, relentless, for Christina's own sake, she sincerely believed that. Nevertheless, she had no wish to be unnecessarily cruel or sadistic. She carried out her task slowly and carefully, poising the cane before bringing it whipping down. The first few cuts were administered with some restraint, but hard enough to hurt – and hurt they did. The wretched girl uttered a loud gasping cry at the second and a louder cry at the third; then, with stoical determination, clamped lips and teeth together breathing noisily through her nose, tears stinging her eyes, while two more stabs of burning, stinging anguish bit through her. The sixth, somewhat harder, made the victim's body jerk, and wrenched a squealing cry from contorted mouth, and water ran over plump cheeks.

She whimpered quietly, while Mrs Bentley paused for a few seconds. Six thin, parallel lines were branded, in varying depths of redness, across each creamy-white fleshy hillock. Raising the instrument, she poised it, lifted it well back, and brought it down good and hard to slash into the junction of cheek and thigh. THWACK! – "Ooooh!" Those anguished howls had a special anguish for the distressed mother. It was a poignant penalty for the inept upbringing of her wilful child; she suffered mentally as Christina did physically.

The beating became more forceful. The rattan bent resiliently as it struck, biting viciously into the fat yielding flesh so that it seemed as though the skin must be cut. But when it was raised, nothing was visible but a whitish mark, which rapidly turned to a pale pink, then a delicate carmine, deepening through deep rose to assume an angry crimson as the stripe began to swell; then to a slightly concave weal, wine red, edged with thin lines of scarlet. The victim's position, loosely bound arms hanging limply, toes just touching the carpet, her weight absorbed by the cushion, rendered her helpless. She could scarcely wriggle, nor could the natural physiological reaction contract her buttocks fully.

After nine resounding whacks the unfortunate girl was crying with loud raucous howls like a baby; her shoulders were shaken by sobs, tears were forming a little damp patch on the carpet. All of her bottom was on fire, each scorching stroke stabbed through her body cutting her into two, and she was sure she was being lashed to pieces. The heartrending cries affected the mistress so that she wanted to curtail the punishment, but she told herself that she must harden her heart. The girl needed a flogging. Playing at it could conceivably do more harm than good. She put all her weight behind the final whacks, bringing the swishy implement slashing down with long, powerful, almost savage swings.

SWISH-WHACK! – "Ooh-ah! No-no mo-more! Christ! P-p-please, ma-ma'am! Oh, stop! Ooooh...!" Choked by streaming tears, broken by convulsive sobs, the pitiable pleas were scarcely coherent. Tears were oozing over Mrs. Graves' wan cheeks, too, and it was all she could do not to rush to stop the thrashing. Please, God, make it stop! She's a bad naughty girl and deserved to get the cane but she's had enough!

The eleventh stroke produced a ringing shriek. From the corner of her eye the teacher saw Mrs. Graves start up from her chair. She shook her head sternly and motioned the woman to sit down. A glistening bead of crimson had appeared upon the swollen, inflamed, wealed flesh. The next wallop was aimed to avoid it, but produced another shining smear of blood, and another loud scream, but the punisher would not let herself be softened. She did not regard fifteen as excessive for a healthy young woman. She had had some experience of severe caning at a strict private boarding school, and had twice given fifteen strokes. In one such case the offender, a tough, obstreperous sixteen-year-old, had taken the castigation bending over, with nothing more than a few gasps and winces. When it was over she had straightened up, grinned, with wet eyes shining, and – wearing nothing below her shirt – had performed a few steps of the can-can. Now, the mistress was shocked by the results upon her present subject, and was thankful when, after two more ringing cracks across the upper part of Christina's tormented rump, she threw the rattan down.

Christina had no urge to retrieve her pride by any show of boldness. She would gladly have grovelled, kissed the rod or her mistress's feet. She vowed to herself that she would never, ever, steal so much as a penny or a small green apple. She had one lesser ordeal to come.

The chastisement over, she lay prone on the carpet, being patted and consoled by her mother. She stopped weeping, but whimpered and groaned with the almost intolerable burning ache of her livid swollen weals. As the intensity of pain eased slightly she accepted what had happened – she'd asked for it, and in a bizarre way she was glad. But it was to take time before her distraught parent could endure, with equanimity, the scarifying mental picture of her beloved daughter ceremonially flogged like a criminal.

With a shock of incredulity, Christina learned that Mr. Atkins had arrived to inspect the physical results. "Oh, ma'am, no! No, please! I can't let him see!" Mrs. Bentley had made the arrangement believing that the additional shame and disgrace would help in impressing the culprit's culpability deep into her soul. Now, touched by the child's pathetic state – face, stained and grubby, reddened puffy eyes – she felt pangs of remorse. But she could not go back on her promise to the grower. "I'm sorry, my dear. It is fair that he should see for himself. You can call it part of the punishment."

"It'll shame me! I'm too old to let a man... Oh, mummy, must I?" She must. Mrs. Graves had consented reluctantly. Remembering the man's scepticism when she had promised to spank her daughter, she thought it wasn't a bad thing that he should see with his own eyes the penalty that had been paid. "Darling, he knows what a naked girl looks like. And he thrashed his daughter's bare backside with a leather strap when she was your age."

"I'll die with shame!"

"No you won't my dear," said Mrs. Bentley. "You'll find it won't be so bad, and he'll only see your back." That was to prove inaccurate. "Stand with your legs together and hold something against your front."

Any sexual thrill the man might have felt was neutralized by the jolt he received at the sight of Christina's savaged rear. Inflamed swollen flesh; thick, reddish-purple weals; ugly livid knots and dark trickles of dried blood where weals crossed. "My!" he ejaculated. "Oh, my! Oh, the poor maid! I'd not have wanted it to be like that. It were common 'nough for us kids to get the stick 'cross our backsides at school. But I never see nothing like this, never! I'm right sorry it 'ad to be me as brought this on ee, Miss Christina. Don't s'pose you'm feeling too friendly, like."

"Oh, it's all right, Mr. Atkins. I – I... Well, I was a bad girl and I got what I deserved. Now it's over I'm glad Mrs. Bentley was severe!"

"Eh, lass? You are?"

"It's made me see how bad and – and stupid I was. I'll never steal again. Never!"

"Well, miss, I'm all the more glad as I brought along a little something as might 'elp to take the sting away a bit. Yur's four pounds each o' my very best quality peaches an' Victorias."

The girl swung round, holding her dress round herself. She saw, standing by the door, the familiar basket together with a corrugated carton. "Oh, Mr. Atkins!" she gasped in delight. "Oh, I say! Thank you! I don't deserve them!"

" 'appen not, but I'll never forget 'ow pleased my Pansy were, I walloped 'er bare bum for goin' after grapes. Layin' on 'er bed, too stiff to move, she were, poor kid. I went an' picked 'er some fruit. Give I a smashin' kiss, 'er did!"

For one reason and another, Christina was becoming a little randy, despite the fact that her bottom was still burning and aching intensely; and in her delight at the unexpected gift she was ready for a cuddle. "Would you like one from me, Mr. Atkins?" she asked mischievously.

"Needn't ask that again, my lover!" Taking her in his arms he kissed her mouth. To his blissful surprise, she responded ardently, lips straining against lips in a long, luscious kiss. During their embrace the dress dropped to the floor – Christina was never sure whether it was an accident or not. Relinquishing his delicious, buxom, bundle of femininity, the man stepped back, breathing hard – and what he saw elicited a whispered "oooh – oh, my!" For several seconds the girl stood, quite wantonly, with parted legs and a brazen smile upon her tear-stained face, Atkins stared, bewildered and ecstatic, at a very full mount of Venus and tempting pink labia not entirely concealed by a luxuriant growth of brown hair. Then he spun round to confront the two women, who were staring, too astounded to speak.

He grinned, red-faced and guilty. "Payment for me peaches – what a peach! Eh, wait'll I tell the missus I kissed a lovely young naked female an' seen a beautiful bare be'ind an' all er"s got! Cor – er... give I peaches!"

When he had gone, schoolmistress and mother stared at each other. "Well!" said the latter. "Ar!" said the former, with a faint smile. "An' I 'opes 'er does!"

"Brazen hussy!" Mrs. Graves said to her blushing daughter. "If you hadn't just been whipped, I – well, I damn well would spank you!"

The girl smiled at her mother and said softly. "I think you should, mummy. When my bottom is better."

"I think so too," the Deputy Principal commented, "but I suppose we asked for that. Take a couple of days off from school, Christina. And we'll see the school doctor and talk about a diet for you, my dear. Right?"

"Right, Mrs. Bentley. And – and thank you for whipping me. And for letting Mr. Atkins see my bare bot. Eight pounds of fruit – and what a kiss!"

"H'm! You certainly should keep a sharp eye on this young lady, Mrs. Graves. And a hairbrush or slipper on her bottom when she needs it."

"I was thinking the same thing, Mrs. Bentley. I think this unfortunate affair has served a very useful purpose, after all. I was wondering – do you think you could let me have this cane?"